


Captain's Orders

by ladyofdragons



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confrontations, Food Issues, Foul Play, Friends With Benefits, Gift Giving, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Intrigue, M/M, Medical Procedures, Psychological Trauma, Reunions, Romantic Interest, Slow Build, Strained Friendships, Unrequited, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Welcome back party, mentions of past relationships - Freeform, not overly shippy, oops things got shippier, something like PTSS/PTSD, things are way shipper now, troubled relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/pseuds/ladyofdragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(ship tags now include both romantic and platonic relationships because the latter is just as important here, and will be updated with more as the story unfolds)</p><p>Megatron may be an Autobot and captain of the Lost Light now, but that doesn't mean his challenges are over. There's still the Decepticon Justice Division to consider and a certain wayward swordmech...</p><p>That's how it all began. This story goes on to tell the tale of Drift's return to a Lost Light and how the crew, especially its two Captains (and a certain medic) adjust to his return. Drama, of course, ensures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Requite

**Author's Note:**

> The warnings are a precaution, there are no graphically depicted scenes of violence (only post trauma). 
> 
> The focus of this fic is mainly Megatron's rescue of Drift and what follows. I wanted a confrontation with Tarn, but for the life of me I couldn't decide how it should end--there's just so many options--so it's left ambiguous and up to the reader to decide the outcome. This started as a single drabble back in May after the one year anniversary of Drift's exile, and grew into this, which is only half of what I have notes for. Hopefully I'll get to the rest... But for now, enjoy.
> 
> Edited to add: Ironically enough I started this during early MTMTE season 2, before we knew Rodimus was even aboard the Lost Light and still co-captain. Obviously the story's evolved to include him as MTMTE has, but there are still a few artifacts left in chapter one that might imply otherwise which I've left in for novelty sake.

It had been impossible not to recognize the signal, even as fleeting as it was. The former warlord had been pleased then, that he'd insisted all his people's ships have unique transponders, the special units in particular. And this unit, which ghosted across the Lost Light's outer sensor range like a phantom that haunted space, taunting him, was one Megatron could not ignore.

The former gladiator and warlord was not, nor would ever be, a pacifist. Battle was etched into his programming as surely as the Decepticon brand was carved into the spark chambers of his people. Megatron knew a fight before it was ever born, the sharp prickle of conflict's seed. The only thing that had changed recently, was how, and if, he encouraged it to grow.

That's what had put him on a shuttle out here, leaving command of the Lost Light to Ultra Magnus. The former enforcer had cautioned against it, going to confront the Decepticon Justice Division alone, but that altercation was not something for which any of his current crew should suffer.

And in truth it was not a thing for them to witness. It had been Decepticon business, even though he wore a different brand now. Megatron's revolutionary doctrine had been the birthplace of it all; so too was he the end. 

Tarn was loyal, almost too intensely so, but there were questions whether the leader of the DJD didn't find some personal _benefit_ in his job, a certain satisfaction that came with doing violence which was not at all foreign to Megatron himself. But the warlord had seen those radical extremities for what they were finally, realized he'd allowed it all to be carried too far, and now, such things done in the name of _his_ cause needed to stop. 

The harsh reality though, was that any who would have dared join him--and Ultra Magnus had offered--would be an awkward liability. Either mechs he'd have to protect or opportunists like Whirl that he'd have to guard against. No, Megatron didn't need the help of the other Autobots. That allegiance was too new to be tested by the likes of Tarn and Megatron had not the patience to be saving others when he needed to be focused on the DJD.

That confrontation had been understandably ugly, and though it left Megatron with _regrets_ he knew it had to be done. Fear was Tarn's greatest weapon. But you didn't fear a creature of your own creation, even if it'd been warped from what it had originally been intended to be. The fight had been like purging demons, through blood and fire and the sharpest of words. It was a reckoning, of sorts, that left none of them quite the same.

And Megatron bore the marks of that fight--armor scored or rent by the DJD's attacks and plating streaked with multiple sources of energon--as he traversed the Peaceful Tyranny's corridors, looking for any of his people imprisoned here. And they were still his people, all of them, Deceptions that he'd led to freedom, then into tyranny and later true darkness. He'd not abandon those that had turned away sooner then he had. 

But the rooms yielded no occupants, only the remnants of them, telling a tale less of incarceration and judgment and more of torture in the name of justice, twisted by power addiction and dark amusements. Just when Megatron began to think he was too late for them all, something caught his optic in the last room. An odd shape and the flash of something that at one time must have been startlingly white. He moved in through the door, footplates heavy on the metal floor, hand palming the light control. It emitted a wane glow that struggled to banish the darkness, as if light was not truly welcome in that space. 

The air was heavy in the room, acrid with spilled energon and high voltage discharge. Cables dangled from the ceiling, still and unmoving like the mass suspended among them. The silhouette Megatron couldn't have recognized, the telling shape of the helm bowed low over the chest; but in the light, even from the back and with the deco changes, Megatron could not mistake this mech for any other. 

Drift hung, suspended like a puppet, in the center of the room. A common tactic, positioning the prisoner's back to the door to enhance their helplessness, every sound out of the prisoner's line of sight creating tiny slivers of fear, every new occupant to the room a new unknown threat.

But there was no twitch of fear as Megatron entered, no startled raise of the helm turning desperately towards the new sound. Only the clatter of the grate on the floor as Megatron's heavy, measured footsteps took him around the figure, his large footplates disturbing the remnants of pooled energon, dark violet innermost mixing with the bright pink of standard fuel.

The rattle of a strained cooling system was the only noise for several minutes, but it was Megatron's own as he stood in front of the other, awash with memory and an unexpected anger. Anger that a mech with such promise had left his side, that the same mech had seen the flaws in their path long before Megatron had, and finally, that such a mech would end up like this. Drift's frame was riddled with evidence of the DJD's brutal attentions, but it was the mar on the speedster's rent chestplate that caught his attention, once the shape of an Autobrand but now old and worn as if worried fingers had rubbed over it countless times before.

Megatron reached out, large fingers ghosting over the chestplate, brushing away the splash of innermost energon crusted over the place where a brand would have been. 

The body jolted then, as if life had summoned life, Drift flinching away from the touch, a garbled noise struggling from his vocalizer. The helm lolled back, turned half away from his new visitor, feeble light flickering in the one good optic.

"Deadlock..."

He'd always be that to Megatron, the ferocity never tamed, only redirected. Much like himself.

And Drift still managed contempt, his battered face trying to arrange itself into the shape of rejection even now. The red of the warning messages on his HUD stained the blue of his optics a febrile purple. Cold irony graced them in that, even now apparently. The swordmech's mouth worked, summoning the strength to talk, the words grating with weary defiance. 

"Aren't you...done yet?"

And then Megatron understood. There was no one else in Drift's foreseeable future but his captors and the specter of death, one potentially more welcome than the other, and only one likely to call him by that old name.

Megatron put one knee to the floor then, kneeguard scrapping against the metal litter on the ground--a fair share of it matching Drift's paint scheme--and turned his face up to the feeble light, its wane glow describing the shape of a helm that no other mech dared imitate.

"Drift."

The name felt strange on Megatron's glossa, foreign, but he used it like a lance to pierce through the cloud of the other mech's pain.

The helm twitched, contorted white finials creating jagged arcs in the air, the one optic whirring as it tried to focus, to _see_ what Drift couldn't believe he'd heard. There was a rattle of vented air from the abused frame as their optics locked. Drift's mouth worked into the shape of shock, then trepidation bordering on fear, as though realizing his punishment warranted attention from the Decepticon warmaster himself. But despite the fear that shook him the helm did not bow, but only stared at Megatron, unabashed, the lines of the face falling into that stubborn arrangement of a scowl that Deadlock always had.

And then Megatron was Drift's commander and chief again, the leader who had pulled him from the shadows of Rodion's underground, who lifted him up to something better. He rose and one large arm snaked around Drift's slim waist, the smaller mech twisting at the contact, jerking away, all manner of touch unwelcome.

"You do not have to die here," he rumbled, as soft as the large mech's vocalizer knew how to be.

Drift's frame went still save for the renewed seep of energon, dripping onto the matte gray armor to mix with splatters of the warlord's own. Flickering disbelief filled the one functional optic, a delirious confusion muddled by pain behind it, as the taut swordmech's frame hovered on the edge of some indecision. 

And it felt as if they were on the cusp of something breaking, the old allegiances and disappointments rearing up between them, to be grasped for like weapons or thrown away.

Then with a hard shiver Drift slumped across the broad chestplate, optic bright as it squeezed shut, shaken by some commingling of emotions that had no name except overwhelmed. Megatron's strong hands went to work, grimly determined, supporting the white speedster with one arm and viciously tearing down the binding cables with the other. Sparks flew as live feeds were severed; Kaon's work most likely, but the larger mech paid it no heed.

Drift stifled a mewl of pain as his arms fell heavily, actuators stiff from being long suspended. Megatron might have considered engaging sensor blocks first, a medic would have, but that profession and the tenderness it fostered had always been beyond him and his ragged edge of a life. His hands were unaccustomed to such gentle work, trying to cradle the mangled body in ways that hurt less instead of more. Megatron suddenly felt an odd pang of inadequacy at this task, that of saving people. Even though for millions of years as a revolutionary that's what he'd believed he was doing.

And in that moment he was thankful that Drift was beyond words as well, for had Megatron allowed, the words he spoke might have been too soft, too unguarded than was strictly comfortable.

He turned to go then, satisfied that the straining sound of Drift's systems meant he was still alive, clinging to life with the same ferocity he'd always had, when a garbled noise muffled against his plating halted him.

"....ing."

The tiny plea pushed past the static in Drift's vocalizer, desperate but resolute, the mechanisms in his arm forcing their way through the onslaught of pain as a crushed hand reached for something over Megatron's shoulder.

The larger mech turned, and there on the wall hung what appeared to be a Cybertronian Great Sword, flanked by two mostly empty brackets for smaller blades. Tarn might have thought it a sick taunt to put Drift's weapons on display just out of reach, a daily reminder of how helpless a captive the swordmech really was. But if Megatron knew Drift at all it'd likely been a symbol to him, a comfort, the personification of his life's path changing in shape but not function.

Drift rasped the word again, the sword's name Megatron surmised, though there was some weight in the word that he couldn't define. He passed over the smaller blade on the wall, broken as it was and stained with energon--Drift's own most likely--to wrap his hand around the Great Sword, the cool metal warming to his touch more quickly than was natural.

And he folded it to his chest along with the shattered mech in his arms, like a bundle, awkward in this newly required gentleness. Holding them both like a precious gift, Megatron's own symbol and reminder that once he'd wanted to better people's lives instead of damning them, he turned away from the scene of torture. It was yet another step in a new direction. A means, not towards redemption but of seeking balance and settling old debts.

Megatron's footplates angled toward the hangar bay, moving with resolute steps back towards his shuttle and the eventual salvation of the Lost Light. The question of Drift's acceptance among the crew did not even enter his mind. They had little choice in accepting Megatron, they would have little choice in this as well. Captain's orders.


	2. Reconnect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long journey back to the Lost Light and words are, perhaps, too small to fill it.

The stars slipped by like cold smears of light in the inky blackness of space, the shuttle making a valiant effort at best speed to rendezvous with the Lost Light. Megatron knew it would be, should be, a longer trek back than it was from. He'd not have their quest delayed for this business, so he had been intensely clear with both Rodimus and Ultra Magnus that they continue on their way without him, and for once his co-captain had no quarrel with compliance.

The stellar landscape was cold comfort though, like a silent reminder of how many distant systems had been changed forever by Megatron's hand, either directly or by extension. But if the ex-warlord felt the weight of that regret, it didn't stop him from moving forward. He owed it to his people first, the people of Cybertron, to make good on ancient promises lost in the tyranny of war. One step, one mission, one quantum jump at a time.

Megatron was lost in these thoughts when a wracked cry split the air, the scrape of metal as a body thrashed resounding through the small shuttle. He left the pilot's chair and moved to the rear compartment where his passenger lay, folded down storage crates forming the only thing in the tiny shuttle that passed for a berth.

One large hand pressed down with rare gentleness on the dark gray mass of Drift's shoulder, the red curve of his pauldron long since sheared off, trying to steady the swordmech's thrashing lest the clumsily applied patches reopen and spill more vital fuel. The memory purges seemed to be getting worse: half nightmare, half waking hallucination, and only the brush of Megatron's EM field seem to calm Drift; touch and voice only fueling the visions. Megatron had lost count of the number of times he'd done this by now, waiting for the half-lucid swordmech to go still again, then checking to be certain none of his wounds had reopened, placing a hand over the rent chestplate to feel for a spark pulse and waiting through too many of his own before finding it.

It was too weak, too erratic, for Megatron's comfort through, and he wished ruefully that he'd pursued at least some of that interest in the medical field so long ago, something beyond the basic first aid that he knew wasn't enough to save Drift's life.

And maybe that hindsight, that concern, showed too plainly on the former warlord's face, because when he looked back to Drift he found both blue optics staring up at him, awake and lucid for the first time since leaving the Peacful Tyranny, light flickering softly in the damaged optic as auto repair tried to restore basic function.

"There's..." Drift's vocalizer crackled, words fighting with static to be heard, "...there's something wrong...with this picture."

Megatron didn't need to ask, only follow the track of the blue optics to the red brand on his broad chestplate, framed by delicate scrollwork from the days of old. It was then that he realized his hand still lingered over Drift's own chestplate, the empty mar of a former red brand under his large palm. 

"Indeed there is," he said, pulling away, aware of the strange irony, that their paths would cross like this, neither wearing brands they would expect. "I met someone. He challenged the way I thought about some things." Megatron volunteered before it was inevitably asked, measuring the words and their content carefully.

"........you too?" Drift managed, a surreal expression on his face, as if nightmare had turned to dream, a hallucination that--however strange--he was content to be in for the moment, to not question, not invite harsher realities.

"I'd always wondered what could have turned you from me. You, who were more loyal to the true cause than most."

Drift moved to speak, words dissolving into a rattle of vents and an unpleasant gurgle, a reminder that the swordmech's internal injuries couldn't be fully tended to. Megatron glanced at the medical energon feed, hoping it was enough to boost the auto repair until they could reach the safety of the Lost Light. He had to hope that it, along with Drift's stubborn tenacity--which apparently hadn't dwindled under Autobot command--would keep the swordmech alive until then.

"It's behind us now. Things have changed but talk can be had later. You must rest," he said gruffly, followed by a quirk of the normally pensive mouth. "If I don't get back to the Lost Light with your spark intact, Ratchet is certain to lace my next energon ration with microcaltrops."

That seemed to ring a bell of clarity in Drift, that he wasn't hallucinating all this. The swordmech's optics went a little wide and he reached for the other's arm. "R-Ratchet! He's okay?" The ex-warlord nodded. "And Rodimus? The rest of the crew??" Megatron nodded again; realizing it wasn't entirely the same crew Drift knew, but such details were unimportant for the time being.

It only mattered that the swordmech remain calm, conserve his strength.

Megatron regarded him a moment, the former warlord's face a familiar pensive mask again. Drift's concern for his fellow crew members was new, so very unlike Deadlock, who would put a blaster hole through any of his squad members that stood in the way of victory. But at the same time it was so very like that mech who was stubbornly passionate about the causes he attached himself to. 

Or the people.

"Rodimus. Did he not exile you?" Megatron couldn't help but ask then, the history in the report incongruent with Drift's concern.

The swordmech looked away, as if the memory, enhanced by recent events, reared awkwardly back up in his mind. "Had to be done," he said, with less bitterness and more sadness than Megatron would expect.

"No, it didn't."

Drift looked back to him, firm conviction settling on his face. "It did. Someone had to be accountable. He needed to stay Captain; the crew, the quest--"

Megatron raised a hand, cutting off the tirade. "He told everyone. Rodimus did. It was in the report. They all know." There are very few things Megatron would praise Rodimus for, but that might be one of them. Still, his question remained unanswered. "So...?"

"I insisted."

"Why?"

Drift paused, the sound of his straining systems filling the small compartment. The story, apparently longer than the swordmech was willing to offer, seemed to flicker behind his optics, the light fragmenting among the cracks and scratches in the optic glass. 

"I was the logical choice," he said finally. "I have the sordid history; he's too important to lose."

"Why such loyalty, Drift? How did he win you?" 

"Rodimus believes in me! He always did! Just..." The conviction wavered then, his vehemence flickering like the sun being overtaken by clouds. And in its place, the murmur of something else. "...like you did. ...once."

The vehemence took the ex-warlord off guard, drawing back slightly, realizing their EM fields had settled comfortably against each other, an old habit returned. Drift's now prickled with hurt though, and the vestiges of old anger, uncertain and lost. 

"Hmm. Who is to say I would not again, Drift?"

Silence fell between them, the swordmech's birth name suspended in the air like a thread, once broken and now trying to mend, to join them or be cast away. The sound of it had some effect for the swordmech, but it was the expression on Drift's face, even damaged, that left Megatron taken aback: the glimmer of hope for acceptance from beneath a gauze of pain and stubborn determination.

So often in the deep past Megatron had seen such things in Deadlock, and more than once had it led him to command the smaller mech to his berth. Deadlock's unrelenting fire kindling Megatron's own spirit, he used to say, needing to be forged into a bright hope for the Decepticon cause. It was passionate followers like Deadlock that fed the drama of his revolutionary spirit, playing a lovely part alongside his role as tyrant-leader. And perhaps the entertainments that came with that happened too many times for comfort, for appropriate distance, too...intimate than was precisely safe or wise for the powerful warlord.

The heavy gray helm bowed, darkness falling over Megatron's face to hide the stirrings of those memories, the reasons he sent Deadlock away to Turmoil's ship, his EM field pulling away as he rose to leave.

"Wait! Please..." Drift reached out only to draw back immediately, as if caught out by his neediness, even though a certain strange kind of desperation threaded undeniably through his field.

Megatron hovered just out of reach, age old thoughts of Terminus flickering through his processor. He wordlessly pressed Drift's hand back down to that almost-white chestplate, covering the mar of the lost Autobrand, before turning back towards the forward cabin.

Drift watched him go, agape, Megatron's broad back receding from view until the closing of the forward cabin door obscured it. He rolled towards the wall then and curled in on himself, caring little for the tug of the energon feed, arms wrapped protectively around the exposed internals of his chest. The loneliness crept up on him again, like a spectre dogging his steps, none of his usual talismans able to keep it at bay. In that moment Drift felt more alone than when he had left Theophany, left the Lost Light; when he huddled in the filth of the gutters or dangled above the pool of his own energon on Tarn's cruiser. Moments passed, enough for the promise of solitude to yawn like a great impassible chasm, for one to get lost within its despair, to wish, at least, for the warm and familiar etched metal of his great sword for comfort. 

Then finally there was the whisper of a door to fill the desolate silence, followed by the sound of a footstep. Drift felt the brush of an EM field again, sliding almost tentatively against his own, unfamiliar in this territory of comfort yet certain of its course, as the large mass of Megatron's bulk settled gingerly behind the swordmech's. 

"The autopilot has been set and course verified," the ex-warlord turned Autobot said in a deep but quiet voice. "The Lost Light is within outer communications range."

Silence stole into the room again, though there was little space for it between them, the hum of Megatron's heavy industrial engine a solid baseline beside the raggedy imperfection of Drift's damaged one. Their EM fields did another subtle dance, awkward and shifting as if spanning the years apart was difficult, trying to figure out what they were to each other now.

"Will they take me back?" Drift whispered into the empty shuttle.

"Drift. You are the ex-Decepticon that is the _least_ of their worries."

And Drift's body stilled, stress trembles quieting as the epiphany crested over him like a sunrise, bright with the beginnings of hope, transforming the colors on his dark horizon. Yes, he might always be defined an ex-Decepticon, but what else he was besides, was only for him to define. His spark grew calmer, the pulses more steady, his EM field settling as he slipped towards recharge, the solid frame at his back like an anchor, the stronger EM field like a protective blanket against the cold of space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mercury is in retrograde and they say it's the best time to tackle unfinished projects, so have another chapter that's been sitting around nearly done for way too long. Next comes reunions on the Lost Light and a look at things from Drift's POV.
> 
> I started this on a whim with no ideas for plot other than 'Drift meets Autotron' and 'Drift stops being a follower and grows as a person in a meaningful and positive way', which are two of the three biggest items on my wish list. 
> 
> WELP, since then, it's evolved into something closer to 'Drift deals with PTSD while The Author shamelessly ships him with everyone past/present/future' and it has all the plot of an afternoon soap opera.
> 
> Yeah, I have NO IDEA if I should try continuing with this potential train wreck or not, what do you think?


	3. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron arrives back at the Lost Light with Drift in hand; welcomes both expected and unexpected await.

The Lost Light loomed overhead as the small shuttle approached, fuel quills stretching into the starscape, lights on the hull glowing softly in a landing pattern to guide the small shuttle home. The landing bay wasn't empty when Megatron docked, the pad nearest the corridor left empty for him, lit like a beacon, illuminating the single white-chevroned figure waiting beside a gurney. He might have expected more people, but they made better time than expected, and though he was not one to thank greater powers, Megatron still aimed a glance at the slumbering Drift with a considering thought. Perhaps the swordmech was indeed under someone's graceful watch now, somehow.

The ex-warlord emerged, face stoic but hands gentle on the red and white frame cradled against his broad chestplate. There was no hiding his limp down the ramp, or the rest of the evidence of his altercation with the DJD, but it was nothing compared to swordmech's injuries.

"What took you so long," Ratchet said, more accusation than question, vocals gruffer than usual, and suddenly he was at Megatron's elbow, taking a cursory glance at Drift's injuries. The hard track of his optics took in Megatron's own state as well, ending on the ex-warlord's face, darkness clinging to the lines of the old medic's features, the scowl an accusation in and of itself. 

Megatron made no comment, for once, words lacking any story to tell that wasn't already known or illustrated by the different splatters and streaks of energon on his frame. He was responsible for Drift's condition, in a way, and he was acting now to rectify it.

"On the gurney." Light flashed over the angular white chevron as Ratchet jerked his helm towards the gurney.

The same light, fragmented blue slivers from the landing lights, rolled over Megatron's helm as he shook his head. "No. They need to see this. He, whom they cast out. Whatever they condemn him for, he's surely paid the price."

"Can do that from the _gurney_."

Megatron's mouth set into an even firmer line, the light cold on his face.

"Are you serious!? Your melodramatics can WAIT, this mech needs medical care _now_."

"If his state is dire enough that seconds count, then we will hasten to medibay." Megatron said calmly but with a voice like steel.

The medic reached for Drift's wrist, trying to ignore the mangled fingers and sliding open the hardline port cover, slotting in his datapad's jack and pulling up the level one diagnostic information, pouring over it once, then twice.

"He's in stasis," Ratchet looked up from the pad, the dark angles in his face softening, "and his vitals are stronger than in your earlier report."

"So they are." Megatron said, offering nothing else.

"Fine," Ratchet conceded finally, "we'll go by way of the recreation deck, short enough route and you get your audience. But don't dally! Time may still be critical!"

"Doctor," Megatron began with still no waiver in his voice as he started off towards the interior of the ship, the uneven click-thunk of his heavy limping footplates echoing in vast room, "I think it is you, with the short legs, that should worry about pace."

They made a fair clip through the ship, Ratchet easily keeping pace with Megatron's longer strides--one didn't befriend mechs like Optimus and Shockwave without learning how--alternating between furious tapping on the datapad with glances over at the swordmech and comming First Aid to make sure things were prepared for their arrival. 

They were almost to one of the commissary stations, crew members gathering for their morning meal, when the sound of metal skidding around a corner echoed from the other end of the corridor. Rodimus pounded down the hall, jostling past the crew members in line, who shouted and grunted and huffed irritably, their optics tracking their captain's passage to reach his destination, some growing wide and others narrowing at the sight of the incoming trio.

"Why didn't you comm me sooner!? How is he? ... Why aren't you--"

"I _did_. You were still in recharge, and he's stable, for now, something I intend to keep that way!" Ratchet might as well have been singing the Emphyrean Suite for all Rodimus was listening though, his optics full of the sight of Drift, the normally confidently composed face reflecting his horror openly. How much of that horror comprised of revulsion at the injuries and revelation that he'd had a part in allowing this to happen was impossible to tell though.

Megatron fidgeted impatiently, wanting to press forward, vocalizer rumbling to clear the way when Rodimus finally popped out of his reverie, voice low and rough. "What can I do, can I do anything?" His hands worked helplessly, uncertain.

Ratchet looked at him squarely, expression not unlike the one he had earlier for Megatron. "If you want to help Drift, go back to the shuttle and fetch his swords."

"Fetch." Indignance spiked in Rodimus' EM field.

"If you know what's important, fetch his damn swords!" snapped Ratchet.

"Sword, singular," Megatron supplied. "I only found two aboard and left the broken one behind. I do not know the whereabouts of its mate."

The datapad pinged then as if reminding them all what was at stake here, one of the diagnostics complete, and Ratchet rumbled as he read the contents, mouth stretching downward in dismay. "Think I found it," he rubbed his face, "Tesarus' work I imagine."

He relayed the additional data to First Aid while Rodimus' engine seemed to skip a cylinder. "Wait, what are you saying...?"

"I'm saying they _fed_ it to him! Now get going!!" Ratchet barked, rounding on Rodimus, his own EM field erratic with rage, engine rumbling darkly. The captain took those words to spark and with one last look at his former third, sprinted away, throwing himself into alt and speeding away once he reached the wider corridor.

Megatron took the opportunity to move forward, the medic following, pace slightly quicker than before, face an impassive mask as they passed the group of onlookers who had gathered. The expressions ranged from aghast to curious to vaguely uncomfortable, all save one mech in the back, primarily orange in deco, who pulled away from the group and moved down the corridor after Rodimus, mouthplates pressed tightly together and visor dimmed.

 

***

 

It would take more than one surgery to return Drift back to full functioning, but the most critical was over, precautions taken to keep the swordmech as stable as possible. Ratchet had mended a lot of wounds in his time, great and small, and it never got any easier when it was someone you knew, someone who held meaning in your life. And it was in the quiet solitude of medibay, First Aid having moved off to give Ratchet some privacy, that the old mech sat and pondered too long on the wounds Drift surely had that he couldn't heal. Try as the medic might, even back to the days of Rodion, he could never reach deep enough to soothe much more beyond the pains of the body.

His hand, one Drift had given him in that strange twist of fate at Delphi, rested gently on the swordmech's dark gray one as Drift lay quietly in stasis. Ratchet always had reassurances for his patients, their loved ones, but it didn't work that way when the patient or loved one was you, the medic who knew exactly what the odds were here.

His ruminations were interrupted though, the medic jerking upright from his weary slump, by the sound of the main door sliding open, a tall and lean silhouette framed in the doorway.

"Perceptor," Ratchet looked up, gesturing the other mech forward, voice more gravely with static than usual and face settling into that slightly dour expression that was becoming customary in his age.

The scientist-turned-sniper strode into the medibay, coming to a conversational distance, gaze falling on Drift's still form at the center of a nest of cables, tubing and medical devices. A quiet moment passed, something unreadable beneath Perceptor's veneer, then he looked up to Ratchet. "I thought to offer my assistance. I imagine there is much work to be done."

Ratchet knew that the two had been close once, during their time with the Wreckers, but like so many others the war had pulled them apart and things hadn't been the same since. He also knew Perceptor's skill was beyond reproach, so if ever there was an exception to be made about volunteers in medibay, here it was.

"I haven't even inventoried all the parts needed yet. There's a lot to be fabricated though." Maybe Ratchet was having some small twinge of regret at doing so much custom work in Drift's current rebuild. But the swordmech had earned it, Ratchet thought, braving the bowels of Cybertron and incapacitating himself to prevent D-void from taking control and turning him against Optimus and the others.

Which was stupid, by the way, stupid heroism to almost take your own life that way. That life threatening moment seemed to pale in comparison to this though, one grave wound meant to kill swiftly in the shadow of many whose only purpose was slow, horrible pain.

Perceptor was quiet, mouth firmly pressed as he took in the sight.

"He should be stable as long as he stays on life support. I had to totally bypass some of the systems, they're just..." Ratchet waved a frustrated hand. 

"Too far gone." Perceptor added with measured words, nodding once.

"What I wouldn't give for a CR chamber on this ship."

"Mmm, the Trion was fortunate in that way."

Meaning Perceptor was fortunate; Ratchet could read between the lines. He'd read the report: the assault of Turmoil's ship, Perceptor a near fatality, Drift's participation in making it otherwise."Yeah well, it'd be necessary there, Wreckers being what they are..."

First Aid appeared in the doorway of one of the side offices then, as if summoned by the word 'wrecker'. "Do you think you'll be starting on internal reconstruction now?" The look he gave Ratchet seemed to say _you should rest,_ but First Aid was well accustomed to the old CMO's stubbornness. Besides, there were apparently other reasons to forego that chiding. "Perceptor. Nice to see you in the medibay." _And somewhere other than your lab for once,_ came the implication.

"Likewise." He nodded to First Aid, not missing the medic's sudden interest. "My skills are yours, doctors, tell me how you would like them utilized."

The soft hum of Drift's systems filled the room, a higher pitch above the drone of the medical equipment keeping him alive. The white and red plating had been meticulously cleaned, but that only exposed more of the damage for what it was: cruelty that couldn't simply be wiped away. The moment stretched, as if weighed down by the gravity of the task ahead, until Ratchet grumbled and scrubbed his face, looking to his data pad again.

"Start with the fuel system, Perceptor. First Aid, finish taking inventory and line up the fabrication orders for priority processing. Specs are in the database already." 

The two got to work, Ratchet choosing the most sensitive system on the list to start with for himself. First Aid bustled about setting tools out for Perceptor--how considerate of him!--then headed over to the fabricator to get started on the parts they didn't have on hand. He made a bemused noise while pouring over Drift's specs.

"See something off?" Ratchet asked, ignoring the twitch of concern that in his weariness, his...emotional state, he might have missed something.

"Just curious, this," the CMO protege gestured thoughtfully to the screen, "there's so much density to the helm..." Perceptor made a noise, almost like a snerk, though Ratchet didn't see the humor in Drift's thick-headedness. "No that's not what I meant, " Aid continued with a wave of a hand, "there's a whole suite of unnecessary circuitry in the helm, apogee and audial fins especially. The sensor mapping there is extremely dense."

"Legacy hardware," Perceptor offered, seriousness returned, "for collecting environmental data and calculating its impact on gunfire. From his days as Deadlock." Though it had come in useful later, when Perceptor himself had picked up a rifle, and the two became a fairly deadly team. Ratchet had seen that much back on the Swarm-infested Cybertron.

"The helm's weight could be reduced a great deal by removing most of that though," First Aid insisted. "Not the finials themselves of course, it wouldn't be the same--"

"Bad idea," Ratchet interjected, "making alterations without Drift's consent," and he offered no further explanation when First Aid looked askance. He didn't know much of what went on at Crystal City but he knew that particular button was one not to be pressed, no matter how beneficial.

First Aid's helm tilted and he made a thoughtful noise, acquiescing the point but still curious. "Strange though. Why even keep it? Can't be a positive reminder."

Perceptor's mouth quirked knowingly, not looking up from his work. "He likes it when you pet them."

The words floated into the quiet of medibay, buoyed by sudden silence between the three. _Good to know_ , Ratchet thought, coughing roughly, trying to stifle the awkward ripple of his EM field and looking intently down at his own work. First Aid stifled what was very likely a giggle behind his face mask. "How very precious..." 

Precious indeed. Ferocious Deadlock, who liked having his finials petted; stoic Wrecker Drift, who loved gentle helm touches, flaky spiritualist Drift who...yes, probably would enjoy both quite a lot.

Ratchet shook off those thoughts and redoubled his efforts on the neural circuitry bundle before him. The three continued on in silence, but the little quirk never really left Perceptor's mouthplates.

 

***

 

The day already seemed too long, Ratchet hunkered down in his office for that rest First Aid finally demanded he get. He'd patently refused to return to his quarters though, at least until the duty shift was over, so the small bunk in his office was their compromise. He'd not stayed in it long however, returning to his workstation soon after, pouring over the day's reports to keep him mind from other things. The monitor's blue-white light cast dark shadows under the creases of his facial mesh, optics dim and unmoving even when the medibay door slid open and he heard Rodimus' unmistakable voice. 

"Back here," he said gruffly, eventually looking up when he didn't hear the captain enter the office. He sat pensively, watching the flamed-colored mech stand quietly beside what he knew was Drift's medslab, the shadows cast over Rodimus' own face almost as deep as Ratchet's. The captain's mouth moved, words too quiet for the medic to hear, then his hand slid off the hilt of the Great Sword now leaning against the medislab, and turned towards Ratchet's office.

"What's his--"

"Took you long enough," Ratchet interjected, his tone possibly more accusatory than intended but...it'd been a long day and some things nagged achingly at his processor.

Rodimus huffed, "I got waylaid, ship's business."

Ratchet grunted acknowledgment, "Greater than visiting your _friend_ while he's in critical condition?"

The captain crossed arms over his flame-colored chestplate. "Are you seriously getting on me for doing my _job_? You and Megatron need to talk because I'm getting mixed messages here and don't appreciate either of them."

Ratchet waved it off, acquiescing. "Just thought given how tight you both were you'd be here sooner." Yeah, 'tight'. Not exactly tight in a way Ultra Magnus would approve of.

"Came as soon as I could. Now spill it! What's his status?"

"You wanna read the report, including all the grisly details?"

Rodimus pulled a face that was less 'no' and more 'do I look like I want to lose my lunch?'. "Come on, just get to the finish line."

"There's a lot to do. He'll be on life support until we finish all the internal repairs and get his own systems back up to speed. After that...it's up to Drift." Ratchet wasn't one to sugar coat things. Was there a chance Drift would never wake up again? Sure. But Drift was also one of the most stubborn mechs the medic knew, besides himself. And if he didn't wake up? Well, Ratchet might have kill Drift himself.

Rodimus made an unhappy, pensive noise, gaze wandering back into medibay proper. "There anything I can do?"

"Pray. If you do that stuff."

"Right." He huffed again, this time more discontent than offended. "If Megatron comes to see him, you let me know."

"Not your secretary," Ratchet ground out.

"It's called a _favor_."

"Drift's the one who needs your favors!" Ratchet snapped, the last frayed wire of his patience springing lose.

"Got him his sword, didn't I?!" Rodimus shot back, turning stiffly and leaving the office, stopping again at the head of Drift's medslab for a few quiet moments. Ratchet ran both hands over his face, hanging his helm and regretting the terse words, weariness weighing on him. When the medic looked up again, it was to the view of the medibay doors sliding closed over the view of Rodimus' back, and at the head of Drift's medslab next to the Great Sword, shining in the dim half-light, sat a bright vial of innermost energon.

Right. Maybe recharge was a good idea, maybe some of his patience would be restored in the morning. Ratchet sighed again, heaving himself up from his desk and lumbering over to the cot where he tried to settle in under the blanket of the day's worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I fibbed, Drift didn't wake up this chapter so we don't have his POV yet; fleshed out a lot of the story and changed things up. But at least you got a lot of main cast now, even if Drift is sorta just scenery for now? XD Also have some well earned levity amidst all the melodrama, and possibly unhealthy dose of my goofy headcanon. One thing I gotta say though, first time writing Rodimus and he's not easy. He truly is a special snowflake; hopefully I got it right.


	4. Rebound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things on the Lost Light attempt to return to normal...except there is no 'normal' on the Lost Light.

"We already have enough trouble completing executive functions as it is; the command staff doesn't need another voice." Ultra Magnus' deep tones resonated through the bridge's conference room, his commentary a caption for the scene before him as Megatron and Rodimus exchanged dissenting opinions. 

"I'm just saying, we owe it to him to at least offer. I got to stay Captain when it was all said and done, Drift should be command cadre again."

"You mean _you_ owe it to him," Megatron corrected evenly.

Magnus held up both large hands, clearly not wishing for another round of this. "The point is moot until he is ready to return to duty. He may not even wish a command post."

Rodimus scoffed at the notion, then added, "I know someone who does." He waited, as if pausing for dramatic effect during which Megatron in particular refused to indulge him with a guess. "...wow I thought it'd be obvious," Rodimus mumbled to himself, then continued, "Atomizer asked me to put in a recommendation for him. He wants to 'contribute more meaningfully' to the cause."

Megatron and Magnus exchanged glances. "And will you tender this recommendation?" asked Ultra Magnus, clearly dubious, optics flickering with what was undoubtedly the calling up of the former assassin's personnel file. Megatron made a mental note to see what information he could glean from the former enforcer about said individual later.

"Not sure," Rodimus began, "he's been helpful in the past, willing and eager, but..." The red pauldrons shifted in a shrug, dismissive, ...or was it? Megatron hadn't survived millions of years as the Decepticon leader without learning to acutely read other mechs. Rodimus was holding something back. "Unlikely."

"Reason being?"

"Do I need to give one? I'm Captain!" 

"You'd ask one of me," interjected Megatron, weary of the tangent, "so in the interest of parity, I would say so."

Rodimus ex-vented a sigh, turning his helm away. Before he could say more though, Megatron seized back control of the conversation. "I think the primary point that requires our consideration first--and forgive me if I _misstep_ here--is Drift's current lack of a faction." The irony of the topic was not lost on any in the room, Megatron's inflections assuring it. "Not that I am one to force him to choose, but I think you both can appreciate the...oddity, of someone such as myself wearing an Autobrand, while Drift does not."

"I thought that was old business," Rodimus scoffed. "Of course he gets it back. Why wouldn't he want it back? No reason we can't, right?" The last was directed at Ultra Magnus, as if daring the former enforcer to bring up a legal reason why someone's Autobot status couldn't be reinstated. 

The large mech sighed for umpteenth time that evening. "There are prerequisites, but yes."

"Such as?" asked Megatron. 

"He needs a benefactor--"

"Well that's easy--" pinged Rodimus, as if volunteering before _others_ in the room could.

"--and a minimum of half his current unit willing to vouch for him."

"Half his 'unit'?" 

Ultra Magnus tapped on one of the various datapads stacked near him. "The wartime regulations haven't been updated. Those that would fight and die closest to the individual must be the ones willing to accept him back."

"But that's....half the crew!" Rodimus stood, the movement a clear objection and almost animated enough to upset the table. "How's that even fair!?"

Silence dropped into the room, the subject's gravity moving from easy to challenging in the space of a few spark pulses. Megatron stifled a rumble of his engine, keeping his thoughts--most which were certain to be unwelcome or too personal for sharing--to himself.

"Another matter, it would seem, for when he wakes."

 

***

 

The remnants of the discussion dragged at Megatron's secondary processes long after the meeting's conclusion, the former warlord proceeding down the hall, happy to be free of the other two for now. His thoughts wouldn't leave the topic though, and the old mech paused mid-corridor, the idle of his engine shifting tone. He knew why. He was headed back towards his quarters, to think, prepare, and sort out options; but to the right, down another corridor, was medibay. 

The moment drew out long enough to heckle him for his indecision, so with a sigh that was half growl, Megatron opened a comm line. The voice that came over the line was flat and tired.

"Ratchet here."

"Doctor. I'd like to inquire as to the patient's condition."

"I have many patients. But I'm guessing only one of interest to you." The words took on a harder edge, the underlying meanings clear.

Megatron wouldn't take the bait, as much as a good verbal brawl would be satisfying on a variety of levels right now. "Status?"

"Resting, last I checked. If you visit, make sure to sign the log. Any more questions, ask First Aid. I'm busy." The click and soft fuzz of silence that followed made it clear: Ratchet was done with this topic and on to other things. Grit crackled under the big mech's heelplate then as he steered towards medibay, thoughts resuming their earlier churning.

It'd been several days since he'd returned to the Lost Light with Drift, but for Megatron it felt like weeks, the cycles stretching out, filled with administrative minutiae that he was never overly fond of. Necessary, but also rote and unchallenging. 

His own repairs were complete for the most part, First Aid being as diligent as ever and stiffly polite, something Megatron found he preferred over Ratchet's demeanor which was dry at best and sour at worst. That had taken a turn for the worse of late, something that was curious to the ex-warlord, as was the way the medic seemed overly concerned for Drift. Was that the way he treated all his critically injured Autobot patients or was the swordmech a special case?

Drift himself seemed to occupy too many of Megatron's own thoughts of late. He wrote it off as simply being part of the pulse of things on the Lost Light right now, but the truth remained that his footsteps carried him towards medibay now, not for repairs or special energon rations, but to visit that particular patient.

So consumed in his thoughts was he, that as Megatron rounded the corner, he nearly bowled over a smaller crew member coming the other direction, the red and orange deco'd mech deftly avoiding him. Atomizer, Megatron identified, who gave the larger mech an irritated tilt of his visor before resuming his course back down the hall. The big mech grunted pensively, the closest he'd come to an apology for a mech he didn't even know, before moving towards medibay again.

The doors slid open and he entered, red optics scanning the room out of habit, taking stock even in peacetime. The Great Sword remained near Drift's bedside, leaning against the head of the medslab flanked by a few vials of innermost energon. Not as many as could be hoped for though, if Drift desired reinstatement.

A bitter topic, that, stirring up old feelings that Megatron knew, logically, had no place here, not in context of the brand he now wore. Logic did little to soothe them though, the old anger boiling up, disappointment and what he would never qualify as hurt. He shook his heavy helm, pushing it all down, releasing the fist that still felt so natural when clenched.

With a settling ex-vent Megatron angled towards Drift's medslab, steps as light as an industrial grade frame could make them. Such heavy things seemed out of place here, like himself, too brutish for the fragile peace of medibay. He noted the visitor's log, remembering Ratchet's request, but with a disgruntled huff of his engine he passed over it, great helm scanning the rooms in search of First Aid, who seemed not in evidence.

Certain they were alone he sank wearily down into stool, optics never leaving the swordmech's partially reconstructed face. The darkened optics were whole, but the helm armor was pulled slightly away, little lights shining from the shadows beneath it and cables running to nearby medical devices. The chestplate too, was missing, with only a thin plastisheet covering for privacy over the spark chamber, more cables and tubes snaking away to machinery that was apparently keeping Drift alive. Megatron considered the nest of cables and the largeness of his frame, trying to settle somewhere safe, suddenly having an uncharacteristic moment of envy for Minimus and his ability to shed his massive form. He sat still, careful not to disrupt anything, EM field pulled in tight, red optics drawn to Drift's still face again.

He could see it, even with the facial mesh only partially healed and the mouthplates relaxed, parted slightly: around them, the lines of use in the face, centuries of familiar deep scowls fighting a contrasting battle with firm determination and something like a grin. No, a smile perhaps, not a smirk, one that was probably more genuine than anything Megatron had ever seen on the mech's face before. Red optics traveled down, to the plastisheet covering he didn't need to see past to know the spark chamber lay beneath, changed forever my Megatron's own touch in a ritual that seemed even more intimate than usual with his other followers. No Decepticon ever endured the branding, the carving of the spark chamber, without terrible pain; but Deadlock had come to it with a willingness that had impressed the warlord, braving it with a level of trust few Decepticons ever displayed. Perhaps it was then, that the little guttermech had wormed his way into Megatron fondness? The summoned memory rose clearly in Megatron's processor: Drift in that shivering moment vulnerability, baring himself to Megatron, welcoming the searing pain as it cleansed away his wretched former self, bringing with it the promise of freedom and a new name: Deadlock.

The old mech sighed. "I failed you." 

It was like a test, not to see if the swordmech would wake, but to taste the words, their truth and his acceptance of them. They sounded quietly in the austere environment of medibay, falling into something like judgement. "You, and everyone else who believed in the true cause." Megatron lost sight of that, sacrificed everyone's chance at a good life for control and domination. When had freedom become a thing he could only offer through a tightly clenched fist? Why had it taken Bumblebee to shed light on those truths? Why hadn't Deadlock--Drift--come back to him....?

He knew the answer to that, and as much as it angered him, he knew Drift was a survivalist before Megatron had turned him into something else. Returning to the fold...that was a risky proposition by Megatron's own design. He'd thought sending Lockdown was enough, a message that Deadlock hadn't been put on the DJD's list, that he was welcome back. But Megatron had been the one to originally send him away; no longer at the warlord's side as promised, but posted on Turmoil's ship. A hefty prize, for some who sought rank, though not a paradise by any means.

It shouldn't have been a surprise then, in hindsight, the choice the former Decepticon made.

But regardless the thought wouldn't leave Megatron, worming around in his processor, that if Drift had returned...would things have been different? Would he have been different?

 

***

 

"...any more questions, ask First Aid. I'm busy." Ratchet cut the comm link with a dry huff, turning his attention back towards the other two mechs.

"Let me guess:" Rodimus piped in, "Swerve, trying to determine if the additives he bought in Hedonia are what fouled Jackpot's fuel system?"

"Engex, bad judgement and a twitchy FIM chip are what fouled Jackpot's fuel system. No, that was our favorite ex-Con asking about Drift." 

Rodimus and Ultra Magnus exchanged looks. It was, of course, the reason they'd requested this meeting with Ratchet, to get an update on the swordmech's status. Magnus spoke up. "You seem less than pleased, doctor. Is that due to his current condition or Megatron's involvement?" 

Judging by Ratchet's expression, there wasn't a 'no' anywhere in the answer. "Neither makes me happy if that's what you mean, but the latter makes me nervous. Drift doesn't need this, not so soon after returning. He's been ousted by the crew, the last thing we need is him falling in with the wrong crowd now."

Magnus' optics darkened in thought but Rodimus had been nodding along, in agreement, until he realized the last portion might implicate him. "Hey! I wouldn't let that happen."

"Don't be offended Rodimus," Ratchet returned dryly, "if I don't take that as 100% assurance and go rest on my laurels, completely at peace."

Magnus carefully stacked the last of the datapads in a neat pile, adjusting their alignment as he chose his words carefully. "I do see the...potential for influence being in Megatron's presence again. Exactly how detrimental that is though, is difficult to quantify."

"I'll quantify it with my footplate up his aft!" Rodimus crowed, brazen, with every clear intention of following through.

"Not if it lands you in my medibay," Ratchet warned with the wag of a finger, equally dismayed by the implications but less hot-headed over it. "Last thing any of us needs is for this to escalate into violence."

Magnus made a thoughtful, concerned noise. "Do you think, Ratchet, that Megatron would bear any ill-will against his former lackey?"

Ratchet's finger drummed on the tabletop, like a nervous twitch, seeming to echo the discontent of the other two. He was hesitant to say, to judge, even though he felt Megatron fully capable of subverting any of the crew if the ex-warlord chose. There was something in the way Megatron acted when he first arrived with the swordmech... 

"I'm not placing any bets. Megatron--" His comm sounded then, the emergency line from medibay, a patient coding red...

 

***

 

It was serenity, not unlike floating before Vector Sigma, his body and D-void forgotten, deep in the bowels of Cybertron. But it lacked that cocoon of certainty, that he was meant to go on, tasked by a greater power to do more. Had he served his purpose then? Done his part so the others could go on?

The others...

Drift floated, consciousness detached, like a meditation deeper than he'd ever accomplished on his own. And he had an inkling that there was work to be done, a calling, but was it _his_ name being called, or just a random need, the ongoing struggle of his people. His...crew?

Ongoing... Crew...

"You seem lost."

The voice, tenor tones that were clear yet soft, struck a bright note in his spark's memory, a thing that would never fade no matter how many eons passed. Drift turned, seeing the brightness, and it took on form as he recognized the voice, the sleek angular lines of a small air frame, pure white with bright slices of red, both passionate and forthright.

"I..." Drift was struck without words, mouth working only half guided as his optics bore witness, wide and bright.

"We need to stop doing this," the jet said, the mouth turning in a gentle smirk, teasing, remembering their first meeting. 

"I beg to differ!" Drift blurted out, hands reaching, seeking yet unsure, for the figure that he knew as Wing, an essence he could sense but never quite touch during meditation. 

"Tut. No begging of any sort is necessary. I am here Drift, for you." And the jet's arms were open, palms sliding against Drift's reaching hands, fingers brushing each wrist. And Drift gasped at the realness of it, solid and physical in his amazed grip; or perhaps he was energy now too, as the jet was.

"But...why, how?!" 

"You already know these things Drift, just believe they are true. That you are worthy. _We_ , know it to be true."

"We...?" And just as Drift said it, he understood. There was Wing, before him, just as Drift remembered but also _more_... Like the head of a pin or the bow of a ship, the foremost figure with an immenseness spooling out in a line behind him, all the former bearers of the Great Sword and their collective wisdom. All of them, here, for him.

And suddenly that immensity, that greatness, felt like a weight on Drift, not propping him up but pressing down on him, the label of unworthiness rising in his thoughts.

Wing smiled, knowing. " _Too Pure For This World_ chooses its bearers Drift, you were worthy on day one."

"Wait, _Peerless_...?"

"... _Under Heaven_ , as you say. We all hear their names in our own ways Drift. But the meaning, the essence, is the same. And it grows, evolves, with each new addition." 

Drift stared blankly for a moment, cyan optics shifting from the jet to the diaphanous figures behind him, quietly watching, some more defined than others. But none were as manifest as Wing, whose solid plating shone with a soft glow. "Oh," Drift murmured, "So you mean... each wielder of the sword..."

"Leaves something behind, yes. It is part and parcel to the bond." A soft smile from the jet, optics lidding for a moment as if making an admission. "Some more than others..."

Drift was too busy processing the other implications of that news however, his optics brightening. "So someday... I could join you, I could be part of this?"

Wing nodded, slowly. "However much of you wishes to stay. Our sparks are infinite Drift, when we reach that level, loosed completely from the material."

Drift's optics grew still brighter, flickering with an almost rosy hue, his hands closing around Wing's with a grip he never wanted to loosen. "Of course! Of course I want to stay! Wing, I... I never got to thank you. To appreciate everything you'd done. To... There's just so much..."

"Drift," Wing interjected, patient but stern, drawing the focus back. "I know. And I never got to make amends for unfortunate necessities. But that's not what's important right now."

"No...?" But how could that be possible? Drift's browridge furrowed under his helm, lost again, something nagging at the back of his mind, disrupting the feeling of serenity. He'd ached to speak to Wing, to purge that regret, to say all the things he'd been unable to say that morning as Wing's last sun rose on Theophany's horizon. "I can't think of anything more important..."

Wing's smile broadened, both pleased and amused. "Drift. I am here. Whenever you wish to speak. I just wish it wouldn't take visits to medibay to initiate them."

"What?" The softness of Drift's expression shattered, marred by confusion and that nagging sensation, pulling at him.

"Go back, Drift. There's others that still need you."

Others...

And then it hit home, realization blooming over Drift's face. That perfect moment of communion with Vector Sigma had that same serenity, a glowing moment where he'd never felt more alive. But he'd also been dying, spark fluttering against his own sword blade. 

And then the pull increased and he felt torn, fingers instinctively tightening around Wing's. 

"I will always be here," the knight assured, "go where you are needed _most_." And then Wing's smile was one of pride as Drift loosened his grip, letting the pull take him; and as everything changed, reality rushing at him as if through a tunnel, he heard the call, like a laughing taunt, "Just keep practicing your meditation!"

And then the world was suddenly all hard edges and sharp light, blaring medical alarms and harried voices shouting orders and wrestling with equipment. But through it all Drift clung to that thread of quiet serenity, peace and warmth stemming from just over his right shoulder where the Great Sword lay. His vents opened to draw a deep intake, one that lanced pain through him, the stretch and shift of new parts, a body half healed. And he reveled in it because it meant he was alive. 

And he had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one could have predicted that Wing cameo, NOPE, not at all. I definitely know where I'm going with this now and have an outline for several more chapters, I just hope it's a good direction. /sweats Feedback is welcome!
> 
> (credit for the alternate great sword name goes to Hellkitty)
> 
> Edited to add: It's that moment when you can't believe you missed a sterling opportunity and just have to go back and do it. A little something regarding spark chambers has been added to Megatron's rumination in medibay. Naw, I didn't need my heart or anything!


	5. Revive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift wakes and the true reunions begin. The real healing is still to come though, and some things take more time and effort to work through than others. Oh, and what's this about foul play?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been eager to get this out around changing jobs, trying to buy a house, holiday stuff and bunch of other RL craziness. But here we are! I hope you all enjoy. (And okay...I got distracted for a bit writing porn for this story that I can't even post yet. /sob. Can you blame me though??) And geez, I have no idea what ships to tag this as anymore...??
> 
> PSA: I prefer to write from life experience where possible, but I cannot claim personal experience (fortunately so) with extreme trauma and the PTSS/PTSD that often results. My amateur attempts here may not even come close to what many courageous real life men and woman endure on a daily basis, and any inaccuracy is not meant to belittle their experiences. I salute them.

It had been a long night, fighting the odds, fighting equipment, fighting for life, but in the end Drift had woken amidst the medical team's final desperate measures, coming back from the brink, when Ratchet had thought he'd been all but lost. Since then, the medibay still hadn't been returned to complete order, cables and equipment scattered about, some still in use and others tossed aside, but there was a little island of tidiness in the center of it all where Drift lay on the medislab, partially conscious.

The sensor blocks where fading and Drift's foggy awareness was coming slowly back to the room, his memories a jumble: the loneliness of space, the DJD, Megatron, Wing...then waking to chaos and pain beneath a familiar medibay ceiling. Drift reached past those memories towards reality, pushing through the haze to boot the last of his secondary systems, hands twitching as he waited for his visual field to resolve. 

"Welcome back."

A voice, a moving figure to his right, the face hovering over his adorned with a familiar white chevron. It was a three-fold welcome from the medic: back from the depths of space, back from the bowels of the DJD's ship and back from the grip of death.

"S-sorry Ratch," Drift rasped, new vocalizer rough and undercharged. "Always was bad at dying..." Cavalier words couldn't hide the relief in the swordmech's face though, and Drift didn't bother to mask it.

"Just wish you'd stop practicing, kid."

"Yeah. Good idea." Drift shifted on the circuit slab, a physical test of his limbs, because internal diagnostics were cold comfort as far reassurance went. That drew a groan from him, the newness of so many parts making things feel stiff and unreal.

"Hey now, go slow," Ratchet said, a hand reaching out to stay him. "You woke early, there's a lot of recovery left to do. Your systems still need to integrate all the new parts."

Drift flinched at the touch, not real pain but remembered, the only meaning touch had held for him in past weeks. Ratchet rumbled knowingly, something deeper than a frown flashing over his face momentarily--that was the fighter in him--before the gruffly gentle concern of the caregiver returned, withdrawing his hand after one soothing swipe of a thumb.

Ratchet hadn't been joking though. Drift felt like he'd been asleep for ages, joints under-lubricated, limbs under-powered, fluid lines sluggish. But it was a good kind of soreness, the miraculously alive kind, like when he'd woken up in Crystal City. But unlike the panic and confusion of Crystal City, Drift knew this place, these people, he was safe here. The part that was alien was him, parts of his body so new they were just getting acquainted with the rest of him, leaving him feeling off, unsettled. 

"Early...?" he queried, trying to shake off the earlier flinch.

"We weren't entirely done with repairs, but something disrupted your stasis." Ratchet responded and Drift looked at him curiously, trying to reconcile his subconscious dream-memory with Ratchet's report of the waking world. But was there something else, something the medic was holding back? "Your life support failed," Ratchet continued, "we had to force start some of your new systems before even testing. For a moment I wasn't sure..."

The medic's mouth flattened into a slim line, a grim shape that finished that sentence well enough. Drift wondered at the uncharacteristic moment of silence, when it was so often in the past that he'd get chided for being such an easy target for trouble to find.

Silence dropped between them, both pensive. Ratchet shifted, finally returning the Great Sword to its place near Drift's shoulder where the swordmech could see it. If the state of the surroundings were any indication, the older mech had clearly been cleaning up. Or...had he been waiting for Drift to awaken?

The swordmech mused over that a moment, a warmth stirring in his spark. He mused too, over the dream--vision?--he'd had moments before waking up the first time. Drift's fingers reached out to brush the dark metal of the Great Sword's scabbard subconsciously. "Where is everyone? When I first woke up..." There had been others here, yes. Drift remembered First Aid's face and Perceptor's distinctive voice and the shadows of others that had dodged in and out of the edges of his awareness. 

"I sent them home," Ratchet replied, "After all you've been through, I didn't want you waking to a crowd. You need quiet, a less stimulating environment. You...want me to comm--?" Ratchet reached for his communicator but Drift's hand shot up, new joints creaking, halting the medic.

"No! ....no. I. Not yet." Drift drew his hand back, as if sheepish. Ratchet didn't question him though, just canted his helm as if considering, waiting. Drift looked away; he wasn't ready, not to face the rest of them yet. His exodus from the Lost Light was still an ache in his spark, Rodimus' performance too good, the crew's rejection a bitter sting despite Drift knowing it was an outcome he'd chosen. But he remembered Ratchet, the one set of kind hands there to show him on his way. "Can it...just be you for a while?" 

The medic nodded slowly, concern lacing his weary features, but there was undeniable relief there as well, and a softness that Drift couldn't put a name to.

"What about Megatron? He's...here? Right?" Drift questioned tentatively, uncertain, wondering if he'd imagined it, a convenient savior in those horrible moments when he was sure no one would come, or some strange trick of his subconscious passing judgment using visages of old.

Ratchet rumbled gruffly, "Yeah, that was him. Aid's handled his repairs, he'll _live_." Though judging by the gritty roll of the medic's tones, Ratchet considered that fact rather unfortunate.

"Already repaired? How...how long have I been out?" 

"Two weeks or so. You were in pretty rough shape."

Drift's gaze shifted to the ceiling, trying to take it all in. "So they all know I'm back." The question was probably unmistakable, his hands clenching nervously.

"They all know. They know everything, Drift. Rodimus told them months ago." There was a question there too, a _why?_ in the subvocals and the lines of Ratchet's face. Drift couldn't miss it, and didn't miss the something else there, something like hurt, that Ratchet hadn't been told. But the pragmatic medic had never been understanding of Drift's beliefs; even after the swordmech's experience with Vector Sigma, Ratchet had written it off as spark failure delusions. Even now, he'd never approve of Drift doing what he had just for Rodimus OR for some vision.

"Some welcoming committee, I bet." 

Ratchet scoffed at the flippancy but clearly knew it for what it was, a question too difficult to ask, and shifted to give Drift view of the vials of innermost energon left for him, moved aside to a safe spot when the medibay had erupted into life crisis.

".....oh." Drift murmured, optics dimly shimmering color tints not unlike the innermost itself for a moment.

"The crew is more understanding than you might think," Ratchet offered. 

It wasn't a huge collection, but notable enough. Drift wasn't entirely innocent, he still had his part in bringing Overlord aboard, but knowing Rodimus had come clean about the whole thing made for a jumble of emotions Drift didn't quite know how to process yet. Except... "And he's still here, right? Still captain?"

"Shared with Megatron, but yes. Prime's idea, before you ask. The result of Megatron's trial." There must have been an indescribable look that passed over Drift's face because Ratchet waved a hand. "A long story, but for another time. Don't worry about it now, just rest."

"Think I've rested enough."

"Don't give me that," Ratchet groused, "I just spent a full week putting your insides back together! You're gonna lay there as long as I say and maybe a day longer for each time you sass me about it."

Oh dear. Drift's optics went a little big, taking on a sheepish slant. He thought maybe he'd get away without the medic's classic chastisement for a while there. As gruff as it always was though, it made this place feel like home. "Right. Medibay it is for now then." He passed a deep ex-vent, trying to muddle through his thoughts, almost afraid to ask the last curious question. But finally Drift did, curiously, cautiously, uncertain what he wanted the answer to be. "Has he...been here though?"

Ratchet's EM field drew in tight, mouth pressing flat. It was no secret that the ex-warlord was not favorite of Ratchet's. The medic just shrugged, "Not while I've been on duty."

Drift sank down, still uncertain if the answer was a good or bad one in the end. All he knew was that a burning curiosity sat anxiously where the old anger and resentment used to live. What could have turned the old warlord around and was it genuine...? "What about Rodimus?" he added finally.

"He showed a day after you returned," Ratchet admitted, then swiftly changed the subject. "There's plenty of time for visitors. You've got a few more days here, depending on how things go. We want to monitor your systems to make sure they're optimal. Plus there's still some fabrication to do for the alt-mode."

Drift nodded. "I'm sure I'll manage," he said lightly, because for all that he felt slightly naked without his kibble, it was more the unexpected benefit of not having to face the crew just yet that made him welcome the prospect of remaining in medibay.

Ratchet, however, seemed more troubled, as though even with all he'd done thus far it wasn't enough.

"I should have gone after you," he said finally, the medic's browridge creasing under his helm, gaze locked on the edge of Drift's circuit slab. "I should have gone after you way before this. The moment I knew it wasn't your fault."

"No, no. Ratchet. Please." Drift reached out, hand hovering in the space between them, before finding the medic's hand curled hard on the circuit slab's support rail. "Fragit, if you'd been captured too, I... I couldn't live with that. And they would have made me Ratchet, they would _made me_. ...you don't deserve that." It was the raw, ugly truth, undecorated by Drift's usual upbeat manner, the mask he wore over his more upsetting emotions.

And for a moment Drift thought he'd shared too much. But a wane smile stretched over the old medic's features then, the hand turning up to cup Drift's, giving him choice; and the swordmech squeezed, finding his strength again, happy that the first test of those new joints and actuators be for something like this.

"Neither do you, kid." Ratchet murmured, voice rougher than usual.

Just as Drift was drawing the courage to say something, something not about medical procedures or factions or the crew, Ratchet's comm pinged. There was a pause, and the medic's shoulders slumped, drawing away. "Gotta run, Magnus is ready for me. First Aid is here, he'll get you settled in a room. You get some rest, all right?"

Drift had been in stasis for two weeks, he felt like he'd rested enough. A hundred points over his frame tingled and itched, wanted to move or stretch, but instead he just nodded at Ratchet wordlessly, bare gray shoulders sinking back into memory foam cushion as he watched the medic go.

 

***

 

Drift found himself dropping in and out of recharge spontaneously, frame running slightly hot as his autorepair integrated all his new systems and worked through all the minor damage that still had not been seen to yet. It was almost worse than the full rebuilds he'd had in the past, when everything was new and untested. This was old trying to find synergy with new, his systems not yet in sync, the energies incongruent. Ratchet would probably have a medical or scientific explanation for it, but Drift knew it went beyond that, through the mind/body connection, something he'd always sought to be more aware and in control of than most. He had dearly wished, while suffering in the bowels of the Peaceful Tyranny, that he'd been better at it.

It was a different kind of disconnect now though, parts of him that didn't feel like him yet, and in a way Drift was glad for it when those memories returned, fitful reminders of what had happened to those limbs, those systems. Memories that had him waking to the echo of his own broken screams.

Privacy had been granted, Ratchet had seen to it, and Drift had been moved into his own small suite in medibay with the help of First Aid, the windows dampening the sound from medibay proper and the lights dimmed from their usual harsh brightness. He'd asked when Ratchet would return but was told it was a command staff meeting and that it might last for some time. First Aid had quietly laid a gentle hand on Drift's arm, so like that time on Delphi, the soft warmth from his EM field indicative of a smile, as he asked Drift if the swordmech wanted to accept visitors.

But Drift's imagined response, the product of months alone in space, thinking of the ship he'd bought, the home he'd come to know, the people... It dwindled on his mouthplates, troubled indecision quieting him as other, darker thoughts crept in, concerns of naysayers or almost worse, that no one would come at all. 

First Aid had simply nodded, knowingly, as if putting together pieces of the puzzle that Drift couldn't yet because the swordmech wasn't ready to face them. "We'll keep it to a minimum. You need your rest." Drift had always thought that wording curious, what with their physiology being what it was, but today he understood that the mind often needed more time to heal than the body did.

Now he was alone in his suite, sitting up in the mediberth and tapping idly at a datapad, when movement outside the glass window caught his optic. The silhouette he glimpsed struck a familiar note and every nervecircuit flared in alarm, joints tensing, flashes of Kaon summoned from his memory. His helm turned warily, seeking the source now behind the solid structure of the door. Drift should be seeking a weapon he thought, arming himself or taking cover, but instead he sat there fighting off panic as the door slide open to revel a different mech, one with a familiar paint scheme that was as warm as his smile.

"Rung!"

"I hope it's not a bad time, Drift? I wanted to stop by and see how you were." If the psychiatrist noted Drift's momentary distress--and he was a sharp one--he did not make it obvious.

"I. Er. No. It's fine. A fine time. I'm...not really occupied." Drift ex-vented though all vents, willing tension to leave his body. His hands though, still gripped the datapad, a spiderweb crack now on the screen under his thumb.

"So I see. Perhaps we can do something about that soon here. In the meantime, do you mind if I come in?" It was a small thing, the asking, but Drift realized he was glad for it, a reminder that this was his space and he was in control of it. The swordmech nodded, forcing his grip to relax. "Naturally you might expect a visit from me, but officially speaking that wouldn't be for a while yet. I didn't want to wait to see how you were."

Drift's mouth stretched in a half smile, realizing Rung was here not in an official capacity but as a friend, touched by the psychiatrist's genuine caring. 

"Mind if I sit?" Rung inquired, indicating a cushy pair of chairs at the foot of the berth he intended to take. "We can talk for a bit?"

"Sure. If you want."

"Would you like to remain there? Or sit with me?"

Drift blinked a moment; it seemed such a small thing that, but as it settled into his processor he warmed to the idea. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

"I'm told you can move around now, with caution." Rung stood, moving to the side of the berth, hands folded in front of him, gently encouraging but allowing Drift to move on his own. Maybe it was odd: such a small, light-framed mech offering support to a larger, battle armored mech probably half again his weight. But Rung's simple presence had a bolstering effect, and so Drift sat up fully, staring at his feet before swinging them over the edge. Minding the two or three remaining medical lines attached to him, the swordmech moved to stand, only the second time he'd done so since returning and the first time on his own. New gyros spun and gimbals flexed, more easily than expected, but Drift found his balance and then stretched, arms rising high over head, feet spreading and rising up on his toeplates. That spawned a grin, at least until he wobbled, hand reaching out to grab for the berthside.

He gusted a sheepish laugh and Rung grinned, the smaller mech's hands at the ready but not intruding. "Caution being of variable interpretation of course," commented Rung.

"Just don't tell Ratchet if I bust a newly welded seam."

"I fear First Aid is who you must bribe to get away with that one," Rung warned. The other medic might have been giving them both a look then, through the window from across the medibay proper. Rung waved to him: all was well.

"Right." Drift followed Rung to the little table and chairs. It was nice to get a little exercise, to sit in a chair like a normal person. Well, if you ignored the energon line, the monitoring cable and the other vital lines dangling from various parts of his anatomy.

"Thank you for letting me stay Drift, I know you've only been awake a short time."

"It's fine. Not much to do really. Nice to...have a change of pace I guess." Drift tried to put his hands somewhere sensible, casual, but nothing felt relaxed or normal, comfortable, as if every move was slightly awkward.

"Well I see you're not entirely alone." Rung gave a half smile, helm nodding to the dark length of the Great Sword laying on the berth. 

"Oh! _That_. Uh. It just. Helps me meditate."

"Mmmm," Rung mused, "how have your meditations been of late?"

"Uh..." Drift hesitated, as if the question caught him off guard. Most people disregarded the practice as some flighty, esoteric waste of time. "All right. ... Okay, not great?" he corrected, knowing Rung was too sharp not to see the first for the lie that it was, and Drift shrugged, gaze shifting to his lap.

"And understandable difficulty. I always found quieting the mind a beneficial function, but never the less a challenging task." And more challenging than ever in Drift's current state.

"Well I've plenty of time to practice!" There were still positive sides here, right? Wing had said he should keep practicing. It'd given Drift a goal, a small one, besides the larger task of finding those here who needed him.

"Indeed you do." Rung smiled, hand settling over one knee as he sat attentively. "I would have brought some energon to share, but I'm told you're still on intralineaous feeding."

"Er, yeah. Ratchet says it's just easier, I'm burning through it faster than usual with my auto repair running as much as it is. And he seemed to think I'd have trouble keeping it down..."

"Sensible, but for the last part....?"

Drift shrugged, guessing all too easily why. "New fuel system, still delicate I guess."

"Is it that simple? I imagine your recent experiences couldn't make it easy."

Drift squirmed in his seat, as if doing so might let him dodge the topic. His tanks twitched and suddenly nothing seemed appetizing at all. In the end, Rung offered one of those small, understanding smiles of his. 

"So tell me," he said, directing the conversation, "you must have discovered interesting things out there. Any good adventure stories to indulge a cloistered old scholar with?"

Drift blinked, the subject change welcome and surprising at the same time. "Uh, well sure," he rubbed the back of his helm for a moment, "I mean... I wasn't exactly idle out there. Not a lot of races are pleased to see us around but plenty others don't have the option to be choosy either. There's plenty of Decepticon presence out there still, unfettered and self-motivated. Or worse, clinging to the old ways."

Rung grinned, settling into the chair as Drift found his words again, slowly settling into a tale, perhaps a bit melodramatic in places, and the psychiatrist began to understand where the content for Rodimus' speeches came from. 

And perhaps where the original inspiration lie, with another, well known and also somewhat dramatic, orator.

 

***

 

"Is this data accurate?" Ultra Magnus asked, somber tones echoing in the council room. 

"What exactly are you questioning, Magnus, the data collection method or my report authoring?" Ratchet asked dryly.

The former enforcer showed no evidence of finding that amusing, large hands pressed flatly to the table top. "These are serious implications. If the life support failure was not accidental, then a serious investigation must be opened."

"I damn well hope so!" That was punctuated by the sound of Ratchet's fist hitting the table, and the downward turn of Ultra Magnus' mouth seem to deepen, as if making mental note of a demonstrated bias on the medic's part.

"What's rollin' here?" The door burst open, admitting Rodimus into the room with flourish and haste, throwing himself down into a chair next to Magnus. "Ah, Megatron's not here yet either. Cool."

"Did you not get the memo?" intoned Magnus.

"Since when do I read memos?" Rodimus shrugged, as if it was a playful struggle between them, neither willing to relent their personal habits. Ratchet just sat there, flat faced and unimpressed, waiting for it...

"Our Chief Medical Officer has brought forward some distressing information. He suspects the life support equipment failure that endangered Drift's life was not accidental."

Rodimus' expression did a 180, two beats away from quipping that their faces were distressing--Ratchet guessed--when his own face dropped into that same state of distress. "Come again?"

Ratchet interjected, waving Magnus off. "I mean I triple checked all the equipment myself. I'm saying he was alone in medibay for a time. I'm also pointing out that Megatron WENT THERE around that time and failed to sign the visitor's log."

"Whoa. Are you serious?!" Rodimus' spaulders rose in that habitual way they did, like a cat with its hackles up. "Frag, I _knew it_. There's bad blood there. Can't deny it."

Magnus rumbled deeply, "Conjuncture. We have no evidence as such. And right now our primary objective is to determine if foul play was indeed involved. The investigations into the guilty party will commence once that is done."

The universe had an odd sense of timing Ratchet thought, as the door swished open a second time, the large frame of the former Decepticon warlord entering. "Pardon my lack of punctuality. What's the meaning of all this?"

"You didn't get the memo either, huh?"

Ultra Magnus shot Rodimus a look then, a flash of irritation, and it became clear to Ratchet that identical memos hadn't been sent out.

"We are discussing--"

"--the fact that your tried to off one of your former officers." 

Rodimus might haven been casual, even dryly flippant in the accusation, but it still sizzled in the room, the hand Magnus held up to stay him doing little to remove the sharpness of it. A chill drew over the room, Megatron's face hardening, plating drawing in tightly.

"That is quite an accusation."

"I don't do anything halfway." Rodimus retorted.

"Clearly not, as indicated by the level of foolishness this is," Megatron rumbled, optics closing for a moment as he calmly took his set; the stiffness of his body language--something only Ratchet might notice--the only indicator of the ex-warlord's mood. "I had ample opportunity to 'off' Drift on the way back to the Lost Light, or on the Peaceful Tyranny for that matter, and none of you would have been the wiser." His hands clasped in front of him then, mouth set. "Some might have even considered it a mercy, given his state. But as there are _lessons_ to be remembered here on the value of life...I returned him safely."

Ratchet didn't miss the way the ex-warlord looked his way at the end, and he wasn't sure if it was to imply he was supposed to be grateful or impressed. The old medic was neither, not for something that should be granted any sentient being without a second thought.

Rodimus made a sound, throwing himself back into his chair to put one foot on the table, as if rejecting the logic even if it made more sense than to his liking. "Maybe you wanted to make an example of him."

"On what grounds is this being discussed?" Megatron asked coarsely, ignoring Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus pushed a secure datapad his direction, the co-captain paging through the data. He rumbled pensively, expression closely guarded. "I see. A serious implication indeed. Your guidance, Ultra Magnus?"

It was their little game, Rodimus trying to undermine Megatron at every turn, and Megatron always confering with Magnus instead of his co-captain. At least here, where it was a legal matter, Ultra Magnus' counsel reigned anyway.

"We investigate. I'll need some things from you Ratchet--equipment diagnostic history, medibay access reports--I'll send you a list. And an inspection will be necessary as well, though I realize physical evidence may very well have been destroyed during what followed."

"You'll know I was there." Megatron offered suddenly, unabashed.

"Yet you didn't sign the visitor log." Ratchet demanded in turn.

"I thought it unnecessary. I'd just spoken to you, you knew my intentions," retorted the ex-warlord as if that was enough, even despite Ratchet's request. It was their own little game, between Megatron and Ratchet. Megatron never aired qualms when it was time for his regular refueling of the special energon, but he tested Ratchet's mettle in other areas. The big mech's mouth pursed thoughtfully. "But I was not the only one in the area."

"Oh?" interjected Rodimus, curious again.

"I encountered another on my way there, heading the opposite direction. I believe his designation was Atomizer."

Ultra Magnus made some notes in his meeting log, helm down, missing the look that Ratchet shot Rodimus. 

"Perhaps we should let you get started, Ultra Magnus. Do let me know how I can be of assistance," Megatron said as he rose to leave.

The former enforcer and second-in-command nodded, rising as well. "I will keep you all appraised of the situation via secure channel."

Ratchet waited for the two big mechs to filter out of the room, arms crossed and seated stubbornly. He remembered, that awful day of Drift's exile, the jeers and insults from the crowd, the pipe that ricocheted squarely off Drift's helm, the hard look on Aromizer's face from the forward edge of the crowd. The medic's cool gaze turned towards Rodimus, "You better hope it wasn't foul play. Otherwise you've got an _active_ assassin on board."

He almost felt for Rodimus then, the weight of captaincy showing as well as concern for his friend. "He's awake by the way. If you want to see him," Ratchet offered in consolation, as he rose to leave.

 

***

 

Rodimus remembered too, the list Atomizer had given him. The one containing all the supposed names of people who had voted against his continued captaincy. The list he knew was fake, or at least inaccurate, thanks to Ratchet. The thought made Rodimus' tanks turn as he walked the quiet corridors of evening on the Lost Light, angled towards medibay, for once too distracted to drive. Or was he dragging this out? Eager to see his best friend again, but at the same time, a gnawing hesitation over what type of a reunion it would be joined the uncomfortable jumble of thoughts churning in his cortex.

It took bigger things than that to stop someone like Rodimus though, so there was only a slight pause before medibay's main entrance, the set of his spaulders lifting before the doors whisked open. Once inside, he spied Drift's suite, the swordmech's white finned helm coming up at the first sense of movement, optics alert and wary. At sight of the new visitor though, a smile bloomed on Drift's face, one Rodimus hadn't seen in what felt like ages, and it kindled a smile in him as well, as it was often wont to do. 

It was a moment, warm and bright and built from the more carefree times of old, remembering what drew them together in the first place. But then more recent history and memory seemed to catch up to them, wounds not quite healed, a complicated web of guilt and not-guilt weighing down the space between them. And it seemed to yawn wider in the silence, the plastiglass of the suite window a barrier to more than just sound, each of Rodimus' heavy steps bringing him to the door but somehow no closer to Drift at the same time.

"Hey." Rodimus said, as the suite door whispered closed behind him.

"Hey." Drift echoed, hands resting on the Great Sword across his lap.

"Oh!" Rodimus saw the opportunity and grabbed for it, in search of his usual effortless calm. "Glad you found it. I brought it back for you. Left it where you could find it." So, all right, Megatron had been the one to bring it back to the Lost Light but the sword would still be in the shuttle if it weren't for Rodimus. Probably.

"Thank you," Drift said with a little crackle of static, the simple words carrying more feeling than possibly intended, as if giving gratitude for the simple visit itself as much as the sword's retrieval.

Rodimus shifted to the berthside, moved in more ways than one, optics scanning Drift's form--thankfully whole--though in need of paint and alt kibble in places. "Sorry you're stuck here in medibay. They tell you when you're getting out?" That made it sound more like prison than healthcare, but that's often how Rodimus felt about the place: something that just held him back, stood between him and the next great steps in life, full of doctors constantly judging his (admittedly sometimes) questionable judgment. 

"They haven't said. Still not allowed to fuel on my own yet though." Drift tugged at the energon feed, which led directly into his fuel system. Not the most enjoyable way to get a meal, but efficient, if one wanted to be tied to an energon dispensary.

"Eh, I'm sure you'll be outta here in no time. Then we'll go do some laps around the sport track. Hey, we made some improvements while you were away, it's not just dirty old Hanger Bay 6 anymore, we've replaced a lot of the grating, painted the lanes and there's talk of adding obstacles."

"It'll be great." Drift smiled, though not as brightly as before when they first conceptualized the exercise area for ground altmodes.

"I mean, that's a big tick in the good column, right?"

The swordmech nodded but the exuberance wasn't there, and it felt as if every decent and easy topic of conversation fled before Rodimus like skittering circuit mice. Finally he sighed, the lift of his spaulders slipping a little. 

"Look, I... I'm sorry things got rough out there. That you..."

A shrug, and a wave of a hand. "It's all right. I knew, we knew, there were risks. Came with the territory," Drift chuffed a laugh, hard with irony but not without its humor. "Literally speaking."

"I know. I just..." Words failed Rodimus then, regrets made ever more bitter for lack of a clear alternative in the past, events too complex for even hindsight to bring answers. "Just. You're not allowed to take the fall for me again, _all right_? Not again. Not for me. And not for anyone _else_ , either."

The latter was added hastily, and maybe it was too obvious who he meant, but Rodimus didn't care. Drift didn't owe Megatron anything, that debt went the other way around, and now it was deep. Though if you asked Rodimus, Megatron could keep his debts and his history and whatever else he might have to do with Drift all to himself. He had that slinky black catbot for a friend(?), that's all he deserved.

"Sure. Just don't make me promise." Drift said, face composed in a weak but genuine smile, bringing Rodimus back from his thoughts. It was probably supposed to be a joke: Drift, poking fun at his own inability to stay out of trouble. But it felt more like prophecy to Rodimus, one he liked not at all. His mouth fell into a downturn, pensive thoughts still nagging at him.

"He do right by you on the way back? He didn't treat you poorly, did he? Megatron I mean?"

Drift shook his helm quietly, "I was out for most of it."

"I would have come after you," Rodimus offered suddenly, into the empty space when Drift seemed unwilling to elaborate. "It would have been me instead of him, had I known. But you know. The DJD and unfinished business and Megatron said he had to go alone. And I thought, fine, let him go and deal with the DJD. Whatever happens it's gonna be at least one less creep in the world."

Drift turned away, wordless, and Rodimus thought he was losing him, not just the thread of the conversation but one deeper than that, spun tighter in their history but unraveling before him. "Hey, but you're back though! The trio back together again! The quest can resume with its resident spiritualist!"

Drift looked up, gratitude in his expression again, but the shadows of his face seemed deeper than normal, the bright mask worn away. His mouth seemed to work for a moment, finding the words and the will to say them. "I'm not sure it can go back to the way it was Rodimus."

"Hey come on! Then it'll be even better, right? Come on Mister Positive, how are we supposed to reinstate your Autobot status with you moping like that?"

The swordmech's optics flickered, dimness enlivened, "You can do that?"

Rodimus perched a hip on the edge of the berth, Drift scooting over a little to make room, but only a little, as if wanting the comfort of closeness but uncertain about touch. "Of course! Magnus says there's some bureaucratic process but eh, just a speed bump. We can get that taken care of and get you back on the team plenty soon."

"Process?" Drift asked, his EM field pulled in unusually tight.

"You just need some people to vouch for you, 'bout half the crew. But I got plans. Plenty of people are glad you're back, the rest just don't know it yet. We'll get you out there being your usual charmingly positive self and it'll be done in no time!"

Drift looked at him wordlessly, the blue optics shifting with light and shadow and Rodimus felt helpless then, to banish that darkness, to wipe away the history, to cling to the good that remained. And so he reached out, through that gulf between them, to put a reassuring hand on Drift's arm, for himself as much as the other. 

The swordmech stiffened, tensing through a flinch as his EM field rippled with a spike discomfort. He did not pull away, but the helm bowed, as if in shame. 

"Hey, hey. Whoa now," Rodimus' tone lost its confidence, concern softening it, making it waver, and he turned fully towards Drift. "I'm here ya know, for you. Like you always were for me."

Rodimus gave that arm a squeeze, a soft pressure like a tug, bringing his other arm up, habitual but suddenly tentative in the offer. The swordmech's helm bowed further, curling in on himself, but leaned into the offered embrace, seeking that normalcy, his helm crest settling on the inner turn of Rodimus' spaulder. It had always been their language, the physical, when neither had the right words or labels for what was between them. But even now Drift seemed withdrawn, conflicted, and Rodimus had no answer for that but to try to hold tighter. The embrace was as awkward as the moment itself, and just as vulnerable, their EM fields hovering tightly to their bodies. 

"I can't do it," came Drift's muffled voice from Rodimus' shoulder finally. 

"Sorry, what?"

"I can't. Not yet Rodimus. I just..." Drift seemed to curl in on himself even more, away from his friend, his captain, his once-lover, EM field licking once against Rodimus' with confusion and regret, before rolling onto his side.

Rodimus was quiet for a moment, ruffled by confusion and what stung like rejection, before pulling away. "Sure buddy. Just rest for now." Words failed him again. The right ones, the impressive ones, never did come to him in these times; so he gave the swordmech's shoulder a squeeze and drew silently away, still trying to fathom the meaning of Drift's words as heavy feet carried him away from the suite.

 

***

 

"You certainly seemed invested in this," Ravage observed from his relaxed place on Megatron's recharge slab. 

The dark rumble of the ex-warlord's engine warned Ravage not to question further, but the twitch of the tail said enough. 

"Just go. If he ventures near medibay again, or has any doings involving Drift, I want to know about it."

"As you say." Ravage said lightly, his subvocals carrying all the side commentary needed. Clearly Ravage was dubious, yet still he rose from the berth, slinking out the door on his new mission, leaving a pensive Megatron to his thoughts.


	6. Recoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties are had and hard questions asked. Rodimus reels from his encounter with Drift and the swordmech himself is released from medibay. But how fit for duty is he, and is he ready to face the crew?

The deep, clanging rap of his knuckle joints against the door was satisfyingly loud, like the current internal dialogue in his cortex, as Rodimus stood before the habsuite of his second-in-command. That satisfaction--temporary as it was--must have been the reason he was doing something as anachronistic as knocking in the first place, and with an irritable jab he hit the door chime too, then went for the entry panel itself because why the hell not? That's when the door panel slide open, bringing him face to abdominal span with the red and blue angled deco of Ultra Magnus' chassis plating.

"You're still in your armor."

"Yes. I sometimes find it hard to wind down these days. I wear it later into the night, in the event some sudden catastrophe comes knocking on my door."

If he'd heard it from any other person that would be supreme sarcasm if not irony. But Rodimus knew his second too well, and Magnus' attempts at humor were far more...structured than that. He wasn't in the mood for humor anyway, his earlier interlude with Drift still bothering him, twisting his thoughts. "This _is_ a catastrophe!" he insisted, pushing past Ultra Magnus to enter the room and flop down in a chair, heedless of the resulting scuffs to his paint job. The former enforcer paid it no mind, clearly used to this part of the ritual, those moments when Rodimus needed to vent his frustrations. As accustomed to it as Ultra Magnus was though, concern still flashed across his face as he turned to his captain and friend.

"Elaborate, please."

Rodimus rose again, nervous energy propelling him, and he paced the room instead, trying to push through the emotions that just wanted to shout and rant, to get to the real details of his ire. His hands were animated as he paced; and his cool, all but lost. Magnus was one of the few to see Rodimus undone like this, one of the few who'd offer comfort. And the other here on the Lost Light? Well. He was inconveniently part of the problem. "It's all gone wrong! I mean I knew it'd be rough but, not like this."

Magnus cycled a ventilation, finding his patience in it and taking a seat. "And?"

Rodimus' arms crossed over his flamed-colored chest, the shadow of his helm falling heavily over half his face. "He told me no, Magnus."

It sounded petulant even as it exited his mouth, and Rodimus frowned at the bitter taste of it. It wasn't as if he'd never been denied things in his life, but this case was...special. Not that Ultra Magnus would necessarily commiserate; Drift, try as the swordmech might, had never fully gained the former enforcer's approval. Whether Ultra Magnus' opinion had changed with recent events, Rodimus didn't know.

"No to what?" Magnus asked.

"That's just it, I don't know!" Rodimus' hands lifted into the air again, agitated. "I don't know if he meant no to reinstatement or no schmoozing with the crew or no to...I don't know, just a hug?! What's wrong with that!?"

Magnus looked at him wordlessly, the big mech's expression unreadable save for the flicker of something behind the blue optics, some deep emotion that Rodimus saw there often but never past the armor. "Rodimus," he said finally, "Drift has been through a great deal, give it time." 

"I know that, Mags! I'm here to help him, I want to help him! After everything that happened I should! Why is that so hard!?" 

"You are his _friend_ , are you not?" 

The emphasis on the word 'friend' was nothing new from Magnus; Rodimus knew his second disapproved of the fraternization between himself and Drift that went hand in hand with their friendship. Rodimus wasn't the type to sneak around though, or hide the details of their relationship, regardless of what the crew or Magnus thought of it. So they were fragging--or had been at least--what of it? 

"Well yeah! And then some. Shouldn't that make it easier? We're close!" At least Rodimus hoped so, still.

Magnus' mouth pressed in a firm line, something a little deeper, a little more personal, than mere disapproval. Before Rodimus could ponder it aloud though, the big mech's expression softened again as he extended both hands, palms up, imploring. "Then be patient."

Patience was not one of Rodimus' strong suits. The speedster huffed and seemed to deflate then, arms folding tighter around himself as the lines of his face deepened, a shadow falling over his face as blue optics closed. "I think I'm losing him, Magnus," Rodimus finally said, the words quiet and bitter in the admission, with the slight tang of fear.

The soft expression on Magnus' face twitched with pity, Rodimus thankfully oblivious, and that other emotion behind it all flickered again, brighter than before. "Why does he seem more lost to you here, _now_ , as opposed to before, when he was gone?" Magnus carefully asked.

If it had been another day, that might have provoked a full blown tantrum, Rodimus purging uncomfortable emotions the only way he knew how; but today was different, and Magnus' large hands, held open, instead of beseeching became an offering. And Rodimus stepped between them, the big mech edging forward on his seat to drew the smaller mech in, granting the only comfort Magnus could, ill equipped to do anything else.

And Rodimus clung to that, wordless, a solid reminder of someone who had always stuck by him despite his bold stunts and less-than-wise decisions. It felt like he was losing grip on everything else, the tapestry unraveling and weaving into something beyond his control; so he clung to the only thing he could: the hard angles of the Magnus armor. And Magnus, as always, held him together when all he wanted to do was fall apart.

 

***

 

"Besides the memory purges, have you noticed any different behavioral patterns? Things that might not be evident in my sessions with him?" 

Rung's question was a reserved one, but his concern was no less there, being as thorough as he possibly could. The pensive sigh from Ratchet that followed was a prologue to the a multi-chapter story he didn't know how to articulate except in summary form. "He's changed, that goes without saying. But... In contrast to before, when he seemed very accepting of affection but seldom asked for it, now Drift seems almost...in search of a someone or something to fill a void but unable to fully accept it."

"So he seeks it, but has trouble with physical affection, or contact in general?" Rung queried. 

Ratchet nodded confirmation, looking up from his place behind the desk, glancing over Rung's shoulder to the view of Drift's medsuite. Even from here he could see the swordmech was deep in concentration, bent over a Go board with Perceptor opposite him, the scientist patiently awaiting his turn while wearing a slightly smug look. It was no accident that Drift had been moved into that particular room, within easy view of Ratchet's office; and it had proven useful, Ratchet seeing the pattern over the recent weeks: Drift, preferring to not be left alone for long periods while also having trouble reconnecting with people or welcoming touch.

Rung made a thoughtful noise. "That follows considering everything else we know," he nodded, seeming to arrive at a conclusion. "Well, I know what my recommendation would be doctor, but what of yours?"

Ratchet's mouth stretched thin, something in him not ready to let Drift out of his sights. But he knew the swordmech couldn't stay in medibay forever. "Well, he's still having issues with liquid energon, but the solid variety is no issue. In fact he's developed a bit of a taste for them."

"The revulsion of the liquid energon, we suspect that's due to his experience with the sword shards, yes?" asked Rung, which Ratchet confirmed with a grim nod. "He mentioned, not the swords themselves--he rather eloquently avoided that topic every time--but Drift told me about this 'feeding ritual' they engaged him in. Depriving him of energon for extended periods and then offering only the shard-laced energon, later force-feeding it when he began refusing. I suspect the DJD knew exactly how precious the nature of sustenance was to him, given his history in Rodion and having gone hungry so often. A poetic treatise, just like Tarn: returning Drift to the hell Megatron had lifted him from."

Ratchet's ire bubbled forth, his engine growling angrily, and it took the tilt of an large eyebrow from Rung to stifle it. "Why so long?" Ratchet asked roughly, irritable not at the psychiatrist but the topic in general. "I don't recall the DJD often prolonging their _justice_ over that many weeks."

"Drift said something about 'special treatment'. It's the one thing he was most forthcoming about actually, even indignant I would say." But if Drift only took exception to that, did it mean he felt like he deserved the rest?

"Special Treatment?" Ratchet asked, curious despite knowing it couldn't be good.

"Yes. A darkly satirical mirror of Megatron's special treatment that spared Drift from the DJD when he first mutinied against Turmoil and left the Decepticons. Tarn, apparently, took personal exception to Lockdown being sent to bring Drift back instead. 'Too attached to uncouth ruffian idealists.'" Rung quoted.

The mention of Megatron's favoritism in regards to Drift only soured the medic's mood more, EM field spiking erratically. He ex-vented, trying to regain his professionalism and a handle on the task at hand. "So yes, I'd say the feeding trauma is going to take some time to overcome, but there's ways around it and it shouldn't keep him here. The rest? Physical repairs are done. He's a tough kid and it's not the first time he's been through hell, so standard physical trauma won't phase him. It's the rest I worry about, anything we haven't seen."

Rung nodded, hands clasped just under that sharp nasal ridge of his.

Ratchet's mouth worked, the next question something of a personal query rather than that of a patient's doctor. "How long do you think it will it last?"

Rung folded his hands in his lap. "It is hard to say, every bot's healing process is different. It may be with him for life, developing into a disorder, or he may move on from it, healing as he goes. Time will tell." It wasn't anything Ratchet didn't already know or suspect, but he needed to ask, to hear it. Rung seemed to know this as well, so his answer came as plain and simple as possible, not sugar-coating the truth. "The best advice I can offer is to be present but give him space when he needs it. As the energon goes, it's possible that a new, more powerfully beneficial experience could override the trauma. At the very least it would create a more positive association."

Ratchet had no idea what that could be, specifically speaking, but he latched onto it none the less, storing it away for later when he knew what to do with it. "I suppose that settles it then. If you're willing to sign off then he'll be released."

"By all means. There is much healing left for Drift to do, but he'll accomplish none of it hiding here in medibay."

Ratchet rose, extending a grateful hand to shake. "Thank you, I appreciate your input. I realize we wouldn't normally exchange this many details on our patients."

"On the contrary Ratchet," Rung said, politely amused, "Drift was quite forward about his willingness to have information shared with you. It was as if there were parts he wanted to tell you but could not."

"....oh." Ratchet wasn't sure what to think of that, and it made for a distraction, something for his subprocessor insisted on chewing on.

"If that's all doctor, I'll be on my way and leave you to deliver the good news."

"Right. Yes. Of course. Thank you for meeting with me, Rung." At Ratchet's somewhat distracted goodbye, the psychiatrist rose and exited the room, leaving the medic with an unobstructed view of Drift and Perceptor. A view that, despite Perceptor's confounded yet impressed expression and the smug look now on resident on Drift's face, still displayed the telltale signs: hands and limbs remained tucked near to bodies and neither mech ever reached across the table. There was a collection of smiles or grins to be seen, not one bit of laughter floated from the open door.

 

***

 

It had been a little strange, returning to his old quarters, looking very much the way he had left them. Even the crates of his belongings were here, returned instead of waiting to go into storage, covered in a thin layer of dust. Unpacking had been strange too, everything seemed out of place; or rather, putting it all back the way it was felt like a farce, trying to reclaim a chapter of his life that was closed.

But this was a new chapter, Drift had told himself as he left his quarters that day, turning in the direction of Swerve's to meet Rodimus and a few others to celebrate his release from medibay. Still on the quest, once again a part of that story, but on a new chapter with new players and different dramas to go with them. Drift had new dramas of his own too, something his recharge cycle liked to remind him of, but it was more than that. He was still trying to work out Wing's meaning, that he was needed here by others, but his meditations were still falling short of making that preciously deep connection only near death had taken him to.

His steps were measured through the Lost Light's corridors, taking him slowly on his way, the weight of the Great Sword a comfort on his back. Logic was reminding Drift that he used to love casual get togethers at the bar. It was the other part of him--the part that was now unsettled by the idea of crowds, of facing the rest of the crew again--that made his stride shorter, drawing out the travel time. The surface of his belly itched, raw plating still unpainted along with a few other areas, ones that required a steady bit of manual dexterity to get the design forms right, something Drift hadn't been ready to ask for help with as of yet.

When Drift finally pushed those pensive thoughts away and returned focus to the here and now, he found himself standing before the door to Swerve's, just out of entry sensor range, the two panels closed tightly shut. It was almost an omen, a symbol of so many past sequences of his life, now closed off to him. He ex-vented deeply, preparing to go forward, calming his EM field and clearing his aura, when a warm greeting to his left startled him.

"Drift!"

The swordmech turned, looking to find Rewind standing there, beaming at him, like a ghost from the past, a haunting reminder that his follies seemed to take the best people from this life. He gave a garbled shout of surprise laced with horror, rearing back slightly, and the warm expression on Rewind's face dissolved into confusion and concern, then realization.

"Oh Primus didn't they tell you?"

"T-tell me what!?"

"Ah, oh goodness. How to even sum up?" Rewind rubbed the back of helm, searching for words, knowing that words were kinder than visuals in this case. "That quantum jump that went wrong, the one right after launch. It created a duplicate Lost Light. Some time after you left, they, well, found each other again."

Drift stood, the picture of confusion, uncertainty and wariness, frozen as he processed that unbelievable piece of information. But it was better than being haunted by ghosts and just as crazy sounding as spark eaters and rust plagues, so it fell right in line with the rest of this wacky quest. He relaxed some, growing curious. "So what happened to them?"

Rewind seemed to begin, hands animating, but then he seemed to reconsider, a knuckle held to his face mask. "Ah, bad things Drift. Let's put it that way for now. I'm the only one left and I'm glad you're back. Now shall we--"

The door chose that moment to slide open, the bright flare of Rodimus' out-flung arms and grin taking up the whole portico. "There you are!! And Rewind too. Oh, glad you met. I should have told you about that, oops. Later though. Great stories in there, like me meeting my own corpse. Totally unsettling if I'm honest. But later, later. This is a party!"

If Drift had thought he could maintain that calm, composed aura he'd woven on the way here he was very much mistaken, pulled totally off balance by more than just Rodimus' tug on his arm into the bar, where a far larger number of people awaited than he'd ever expected to see (or hope for?).

His feet worked even if his processor didn't, instinct and athleticism keeping Drift upright as Rodimus drew him into the room where a least a dozen faces (or more?!) offered various bits of welcome, smiles or cheers or applause and the occasional whoop from the back, (that must be Swerve, no one was louder). It filled Drift with a warmth, spark deep, that he felt clear to the points of his finials. 

Drift was ushered into the room and given a seat the center of the table, the sensation of being overwhelmed by all these people fighting with the joy of the welcome, starting to feel home again at last. Rodimus was saying something, something about his sacrificial role in exile and miraculous return, and that if Rodimus himself deserved to wear the badge so should Drift himself. Drift felt the heat rise, unaccustomed to being the center of attention even before recent events, and all he could do was nod and grin and be verbally thankful because he was without other words. Through the drone of it though, he took time to look around the room at each face, to remember who was here, the expressions on their faces. It was a new, better picture to hang in place of the ugly one he had left with. And over the heads of the small crowd of familiar faces he locked optics with Megatron, cyan blue on deep, the swordmech's mouth working into an uncertain smile. Megatron's face was stoic, unreadable as it always was when he chose it to be, but if Drift looked hard enough, he thought he could see a shift in the shape of those optics, maybe a movement on the mouth.

But then a hand clapped down on his shoulder and he jumped, brought suddenly back to the room, Rodimus shoving a glass of energon in front of him and raising his own glass in a toast. There wasn't a single mech in the room not to join in though, and Drift felt that warmth all over again, and it started to seep in, past the scars, to where real happiness lie. He raised the glass with everyone else, fumbling the start but toasting them in return. And as Drift lowered the glass of untouched energon he noticed, there, where the cylinder had been sitting, was a Rodimus star, winking up at him.

Drift looked up at Rodimus who sat with one hip on the arm of his chair, his grin lopsided and pleased. "What's this?" Drift asked and Rodimus jerked his helm, encouraging. Drift picked it up, a chuckle rising in his vocalizer at the likeness of his captain--so classic--and turned it over to read the back.

"For 'not dying'? Really?" Drift looked askance, but his mouth tilted too, the chiding playful. 

"It's the thing I'm most pleased about!" Rodimus exclaimed, "And that better not be a complaint. The complaints department is that way," he jerked a thumb in the direction of Ultra Magnus, who was already rolling his optics skyward. 

"Is it retroactive?" Drift asked, "because if so, I think I need like, six of these."

"Don't be greedy," Rodimus chided teasingly but with a laugh. "Except maybe you can be a little, because that's not all we got you."

Drift stowed the Rodimus star in his storage and watched the other speedster with curious optics, as Rodimus pulled a large, long metal box out from under the table and set it in front of the swordmech.

"For me?" he murmured, staring at the box, more accustomed to giving the gifts than receiving them, (what else was his money good for, it certainly didn't bring him happiness). Rodimus continued to grin as Drift's fingerpads ghosted over the box, more like a case, the silver latches beckoning him. Slowly, diligently, as if savoring the moment, Drift slipped the scarlet ribbon off the corners and his hands found the latches, popping one at a time.

He lifted, the case coming open without a single creak, the lid's shadow slipping back to let light slide across the silvery surfaces of two brand new swords. Both were keenly sharpened, the fuller blank and waiting for new etchings of Drift's choice. 

"We pulled together and had new ones made. Specs are similar to the old, but with some improvements," Rodimus was saying, but his voice seemed to be coming through a tunnel, a ringing in Drift's audio drowning out his friend. And suddenly he was back there, hanging in that cell, one sword on the wall shining with light from the open door behind him, taunting Drift with freedom, and the other flashing just off his peripheral, in the grip of some hand with sinister intent.

Drift jerked his hands away, the case falling open, and instead found the edge of table, gripping hard as if clinging to the room, the now, _this_ moment not _then_ , as the memory from the Peaceful Tyranny played itself out.

His cooling system clicked on and he chuffed a laugh to cover it; a nervous, embarrassed sound he passed off as being overwhelmed by the rare and incredibly thoughtful gift. Drift latched onto that feeling--that he was cared for enough for something like this, all of this--and despite the roil in his tanks he turned his best attempt at a smile towards Rodimus. "Thank you. I... I never would have expected this. It's very kind of all of you."

"My idea but joint execution. The metal came from Anderfelz 6, the forging..." Rodimus carried on, and Drift eyed the swords with a churn of mixed emotions, silently testing his courage to reach out for one and finding his hands still clamped to the table as if glued there. "You want to try?" Rodimus asked finally.

"No, no. Not right now. Actually....I'm hungry. What do you got to eat around here?" A bold-faced lie, but Drift knew it for the decent distraction it was, something he rarely asked for these days. 

"Sure thing buddy, we can have a session or something later," Rodimus said as he closed the case and put it away, his usual zest and charisma covering the hint of uncertainty in his voice. "But for now, let's party!!" 

That was the cue, the group breaking up into smaller ones, mingling or going in search of food and refreshments, the attention thankfully off Drift for the moment, save two or three keen observers. Drift was spared awkwardly having to avoid eye contact though, because it was then that Ratchet pressed forward with a plate of energon snacks, setting them down and casually claiming Drift's untouched glass of liquid energon for himself.

"You doing all right, kid?" the old medic asked, taking a seat.

"Can't get anything past you, can I?" Drift said softly, optics lowered to the edge of the table, where there were slight indentations in the shape of his fingers.

"Seen too many things in this life, and can recognize every flavor of distress imaginable, no matter how well it's camouflaged."

He looked up, offering a smile for Ratchet that was trying to be genuine. "I'm fine. It's fine. It'll be...fine."

"I know kid, I know." Ratchet could translate that easily enough, but thankfully wasn't about to press the matter here, in a public place. He simply hovered near, pushing the plate forward. "Now eat something, or someone _else_ here will call your bluff."

Drift picked up an energon goodie and popped it gingerly in his mouth, his current appetite nearly nonexistent but trying anyway, keeping to the guise and satisfying Ratchet at the same time. 'Someone _else_ ' seemed to be Megatron's name when no one wanted to use it specifically, at least in front of Drift; a practice that the swordmech imagined would grate after a while, like the thing in the room that no one wanted to talk about. He looked over at the ex-warlord, who was having words with Ultra Magnus on the peripheral of the crowd, and given the glance in Drift's direction he could guess the topic of conversation.

It didn't distract him for long though, because the energon goodie he'd chosen--the one he'd been idly rolling about in his mouth, sucking the slightly bitter/tangy powder off the outside--spilled a sweet-hot gel filling onto his glossa when he bit into it.

"Oh!" his optics brightened as the sweetness of the delicacy tickled his oral palate, and Drift looked at the plate again, full of energon confections. "You do this?" he mumbled around the treat, mouth still full.

Ratchet smirked, pleased, a rare smile from the medic. "Figured you deserved something nice. I had them made special."

Some of that earlier warmth returned then, and it all seemed to accumulate in his faceplates, the tightness of his EM field softening with a delicate fuzz as he let the delicious flavor spread over his glossa, savoring the unique mix of bitter and sweet. It took him a moment to speak again, to meet Ratchet's optics, and when he did there was no hiding the affection there. "Thank you... You always take good care of me."

Ratchet rumbled, gruffly flattered, but the typical 'it's my job' response didn't come. Instead, he simply replied, "Just work on feeling better, all right?"

"How could I not, with all this?" Drift said, gesturing to the room, taking in the whole scene, some of that cheery light returning to his optics. Laughter and conversation floated through the room, the atmosphere generally jovial, relaxed save for the occasional bark of laughter. Drift took it all in: Swerve's animated storytelling and Rodimus' embellishments, Brainstorm trying to schmooze Perceptor, Rung amusedly people watching, First Aid and Magnus discussing the idiosyncrasies of Autobrand design with Megatron stuck between then, the irony clearly not escaping him given the expression on the ex-warlord's face. Drift felt something of a chuckle bubble up into his vocalizer at that, until he thought too, of those he wished were here but couldn't be: Ambulon in particular, and dear Pipes, both of whom deserved remembering. 

He was aware of the warm weight of the Great Sword then, thinking of others who might be here if they were still in his life, and he took that time to bring fondness into the moment, remembering Gasket and Wing as well. Or Kup who'd given him a second chance, and the rest of the Wreckers who'd been willing to let him fight at their side when he was so freshly branded. Or even Optimus, who'd shown faith in him, taking Drift into his group at the height of it all, even down into the bowels of Cybertron on that critical mission to Vector Sigma.

Drift was counting the ticks, grateful for them, letting that brightness burn back the shadow cast over him by his reaction to the swords, pushing through. He came back to himself then, noticing Ratchet watching him, the usually firm downward turn of the medic's mouth instead turned up at the edges in a subtle smile.

Drift gave a flustered laugh, caught out, reaching for and shoving another energon confection into his mouth, whole, optics wide and innocent. "Dis ith guud!"

The medic's shoulders heaved and he ducked his helm, half stifling a laugh, but Drift was thankfully saved further embarrassment when Rewind clapped for people's attention. 

"What do you say to some entertainment?!" the smaller mech said, and there were a few answering whoops and general noise of assent, then Rewind turned to the second largest mech in the room. "Any volunteers? Perhaps Megatron would grace us with a poetry reading?"

The general noise of assent died down but Rewind persisted, and Megatron looked taken aback, his usually composed features suddenly uncertain, almost panicked for a brief moment. "Ah. I assure you, I've nothing appropriate to the occasion, nor prepared for, ah, public recitation." 

A stalling tactic; Drift could tell and so could Rewind. "Are you certain you can't improvise something?"

Megatron grunted, a gruffly thoughtful noise. "The muse is not always accessible."

"If I didn't know better," Ultra Magnus leaned over and half-whispered, "I'd say you were intimidated by the spontaneity of it."

Megatron crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You, of all people, should understand my preference for metered verse," he huffed at Magnus.

"I do," reprised Magnus, "but I also know you have a talent that goes beyond that."

The old mech gave a sigh, like resignation, but also of preparation, seeking his orator's demeanor, something Drift recognized well. The swordmech shifted to the edge of his seat, audio tuned crisply to the ex-warlord's vocalizations. Megatron had given many speeches while in the Decepticons but few had known he was a poet. There wasn't space for it in the warlord persona, but Drift had heard him string words together on a rare occasion or two, when Megatron had thought him lost to the daze of post overload afterglow. 

Megatron collected himself, thoughts and composure, stewing about for the inspiration, feet shifting as he came to the start of things.

_In the dark, in the heat,_  
_In the tight spaces we toil._  
_Essential to the system,_  
_Like cogs and coil._

_In the dank, in the reek,_  
_In the forgotten places we rust._  
_Worth and use synonymous,_  
_Treatment unjust._

_Even deemed obsolete,_  
_still we push on._

_Ever bound by function,_  
_still we look up...._

Megatron's voice was deep and resonate as he continued, carrying through the room without need of raising his voice, the tone of the stanzas shifting from drudgery to something more uplifting. Drift let it melt over him as he had in the days of old, but instead of it rallying the radical in him, it bolstered the weary parts, roused the idealist, and generally made him remember many of the things that had impressed him about the mech in the first place.

When he finished, Megatron stepped back again, giving a slight bow of the helm, the crowd mostly silent in its appreciation. Some of the presentation clearly was beyond the audience, too abstract or cerebral to be fully appreciated, but a few who were old enough to relate to prewar Functionalism nodded knowingly, moved. Rewind broke the silence with applause and a cheer, giving gratitude, and a few others, Magnus, Rung and Drift, joined in. Drift had enjoyed it, of course, but try as he might to catch Megatron's optic, a meaningful glance, a knowing look at some of the double meanings of the poetry; the ex-warlord ever evaded his gaze, drawing back into the shadows as he conversed with Magnus.

"Now, who's up for a movie!?" shouted Rewind, clearly the self-appointed master of entertainment, and several more whoops answered him followed by a flurry of activity as several mechs moved to get things set up.

Drift, left alone as Ratchet got up to help, stared down at the plate of goodies in front of him, pondering on how Megatron's attention seemed to perpetually evade him, discouragement sinking in. It only took a moment for his stubborn resolve to kick in though, and he rose, lifting the plate of goodies along with him, and moved about the crowd offering them to party goers.

It only seemed fair and right, that he share his good fortune; how was he to eat all of this anyway? And he offered a grin with each one, and each time the grin was a little stronger, the sweets graciously accepted as people settled in for the show. Drift kept his optics open for Megatron all the while, but the big mech seemed to be maintaining his distance, always out of reach even as Drift made his way around the room in the big mech's direction. 

Finally, when he spied the ex-warlord near the door, slipping out after the lights went down, did Drift's frustration boil over, a huff of his engine driving him towards the door and through it. The brighter light of the hallway dazzled him for a moment, but Drift couldn't miss the receding breadth of the large mech's back.

"HEY!" he shouted, the plate still in hand, and then realized he had no idea what he was after exactly, what he intended, so Drift held out the plate lamely, "you didn't get your share."

Megatron turned, helm swiveling and tilted askance, but otherwise his expression was as carefully composed as it had been almost all night. "I don't usually partake in such things," he said, gruff but polite.

"Things change," Drift said, and it meant so much more than just the two tiny confections left alone on the plate. "I never liked sweets much before either."

Megatron's mouth quirked, as if seeing through that metaphor and beyond. He turned back, hands behind him. "I find it interesting, that when presented with a precious and enjoyable gift, you proceed to give it away to others."

Drift balked, unprepared for that observation and the little bit of psychoanalysis that went with it. "What's wrong with that!?" he huffed. "So I like sharing. Maybe if people had been more sharing back then..." 

"...you and so many others wouldn't have had to starve. Yes, I know." 

Drift was undeterred, and he advanced, plate in hand, the old stubbornness stirring within him, the part of Deadlock that never wanted to show weakness in front of the warlord. "If you know that, then why question me?" he persisted.

"I merely wonder if you see it yourself."

"Need I?"

Megatron's head tilted, still composed, polite, his neutral EM field and body language undaunted but the press of Drift's questions. "Be careful, that you don't give away what's most precious to you," he advised calmly.

Drift's helm reared up, optics wide then narrowing. The plate almost hit the floor, but instead he gripped it tighter. "As if you're one to talk!" he lashed out, anger and resentment that he hadn't felt in decades rearing up, and the shout cracked like a whip across Megatron's face, the composure shattering for a moment into shock and dismay. 

The warlord growled and looked away, reigning it in, clearly knowing full well Drift's meaning: that he'd promised Deadlock that he would fight at Megatron's side. And at the height of Deadlock's career, the pinnacle of their relationship, forged in battle and indulgences after victories, Megatron had sent Deadlock away, stationed him under Turmoil. 

"It was a rank you deserved. Well earned." Megatron said in measured tones, his expression composed again but with tiny cracks creeping over the facade.

"Turmoil? Being stationed in his command is _no one's_ pleasure; he's a creep. And you know I was never interested in advancement for its own sake."

"His command needed bolstering, he needed to be reminded of the true cause, you were an excellent example, a true patriot." Megatron seemed to regret the word choice as soon as it left his mouth. A rare bit of misspeech, but there was no way to take it back, the same with so many of the words and actions here, past and present.

"Then what about Lockdown?" Drift asked, advancing until they stood chest to chest, the swordmech looking defiantly up with only the plate separating them. "Why didn't you put me on the DJD's list from the start, when I bailed off Turmoil's ship?" 

Megatron made a noise, as if letting the question slide off, obvious and explicable. "You were an asset that needed to be returned, not a liability."

"An _asset_?" Drift echoed, dubious, "A _phase sixer_ is an asset and you left more than one of them to the DJD! That's not it and you know it."

Megatron lost his proverbial footing in the conversation once again, rearing back but refusing to give ground. "Would you rather I had!? Don't be foolish," he added in haste, before the ironic sting of the first could take hold, "that order saved your life more times than you know."

Drift gave him a look, face hard but optics searching, reaching for something, something to grab onto, to hold, to draw them together. "I know," he said finally, "Thank you."

Megatron's expression held, the moment drawing out between them, before he shrugged, gruffly resetting his vocalizer. "You have great potential Drift, even now. Don't waste it." Megatron said finally, turning away.

"Waste it on _what_?" Drift insisted, stepping after him.

Megatron spun on the swordmech then, patience spent, looming over him with a face like steel, red optics sharp. "You have a reinstatement campaign to see to, and associating with _me_ will not win you any sponsors." The words grated to a halt between them, falling with the weight of a history too heavy to carry between them, chains too thick to break with mere words or whispered apologies. The air between them, close enough to be heated by their frames, seemed to crackle with the vibration of their EM fields, hovering just out of reach. 

It sparked a memory, times of old, lost to pleasures where the was give and take, until Drift succumbed wholly and willingly. If made the swordmech shiver, his EM field flicking out, entertaining old habits with only half a thought. Megatron gas was still stony and hard,!but he wasn't immune to the moment. With a growl of his industrial grade engine his EM field flared, an assault, too much emotion where there had been none, and then with a snarl he turned and left, leaving Drift in the hall, stunned and quivering, and only one lonely energon goodie left on his tray.

 

***

 

It had been quite a day, leaving Drift exhausted, the swordmech sprawled on his berth and staring at the ceiling. The sword case, another package of confections, and a few other miscellaneous gifts or items he'd given away had made their way back to his habsuite after the party, still sitting on the desk where he'd left them. 

He thought to turn-in early, recharge after a long day crowded with people and things and feelings he wasn't prepared for. But the latter stirred fitfully in his secondary processes and as deep as his spark, preventing recharge, and finally Drift got up to walk the halls of the Lost Light. He shifted it to a jog at some point, trying to expend some energy, something he'd usually do in the practice room with a kata or other sword work. That thought made his strides land more heavily, pounding down the hall as if he could outrun his frustrations.

He turned a corner wide, clipping the elbow of another mech coming the other direction, scattering datapads everywhere.

"Oh! I'm so--sorry...!" He gasped, the exclamation fading as he stared blankly a moment.

Perceptor simply chuckled, "And to think you used to chide me for being absent minded."

Drift gave a rueful chuckle of his own, guilty as charged. He stopped to gather up the scattered datapads, "I was just, uh. Out for a run. Couldn't recharge."

"Mm-hm," observed Perceptor, tucking several of the datapads under his arm. "Is it helping?"

"Uh, to be honest I'm not sure," Drift said, still restless, straightening with an armful of datapads held to his chestplate. "Do you, uh..." He hesitated, "can I help you with these? You on your way to the lab?"

Perceptor's mouth turned in that small smile that he got sometimes. "I'm going home actually, but yes."

"Oh! Uh...." Drift wasn't sure if that was good fortune or bad or just happenstance but he found himself not wanting to say no. "Sure," he agreed, turning down the hall towards Perceptor's habsuite, walking abreast with the taller mech.

"Had a big day today," Perceptor observed, helm tilted, walking on Drift's right so he could look at the other mech through his non-reticle optic. 

"Ah-ha, yeah. A good one though. Mostly good. I mean..." He shut his mouth then, realizing how loose lipped he was feeling. Why ruin this with his woes? Perceptor likely had much greater things to worry about.

"You can speak your mind, Drift," Perceptor offered, "I certainly did often enough with you once upon a time."

"Heh, true." It was something, at least, that familiarity, one of the few good memories from the past reaching forward. It had been a dark time for them both, with the Wreckers, Drift newly badged and Perceptor still recovering from his near death at Turmoil's hands. They formed a bond: a life saved, both lives reborn, each in transition with nothing to hold onto except each other.

But then the war shifted and things changed, and when a position with Prime's group had opened up Drift had taken it, feeling as if he was needed there more, knowing the Perceptor and the Wreckers had other things to attend to. Had he known that would be Garrus-9 his choice would have been different, Drift would have stayed and fought at Perceptor's side through it all.

It was just one thing on his laundry list of regrets that never seemed to come clean, and they'd been somewhat distant since then, even after boarding the Lost Light together. Perceptor was...together now, confident in his place, both sniper and scientist. He didn't need Drift as a crutch anymore, and what else did the swordmech have to offer?

Other than datapad transportation, that is. 

The scientist seemed to be a willing audio though, and the thoughts jumbled in Drift's processor knew no safe outlet unless here, so with a deep cycle through his ventilation system he tried to structure his thoughts.

"Megatron's avoiding me," he stated. 

"And this surprises you?"

"Well, yeah. I guess? I mean...I thought he'd be angry, about me leaving. Or happy I'm back? I don't know!" Drift's engine gave a little rev of irritation and Perceptor gained a knowing look.

"You want him to care, Drift."

"Yeah. I guess." It was true: he'd take something, anything, over this politely ambivalent attitude the ex-warlord had towards him in all but the most tensest moments. Scream at him, punch him, kiss him, DO SOMETHING.

"I can relate." Perceptor said quietly, and Drift made the connection, not the same but close enough.

"Look, I never got a chance to say it but..." Perceptor waved him off, as if it wasn't necessary, but this topic was a hard launch and now that Drift had started things, he wouldn't let up until it was done. "I'm sorry I left without much word. There wasn't a lot of time and..." Those were excuses. He reset his vocalizer, and with it the train of thought, "I wish I'd been there for you at Garrus-9. And I...I missed you. But when we were reunited on the Lost Light I... Well you were so settled, so in charge of yourself. I didn't know how to... You didn't need me anymore."

Perceptor's expression slowly went from pensive to touched to amused, his gaze not making optic contact until the end, when he stopped and turned towards Drift. "Drift. It's all right. I...was upset for a time. But I understand you went where you needed to be." Perceptor admitted, the emotions behind it old but unresolved until now. That didn't appear to stifle the affection though, which had waned but never left him. "If I'm honest though, I'd say I'm glad you weren't there on Garrus-9. Knowing you...you would've gotten yourself killed doing something amazingly heroic."

"And stupid." Drift added.

"And stupid." Perceptor agreed with half a grin, and there they stood for a moment, and old gap bridged but uncertain where it would lead from there. Drift's feet shuffled, arms still laden with datapads. Perceptor waved a hand, indicating the door to his back. "These are my quarters. Do you...want to come in?"

"Oh. Uh..." Drift looked away, momentarily bashful, before deciding to take that leap. "Yeah. I'd like that. To just, you know... I mean I'm not really...up for...anything these days. Not you! It's not you. Just, you know in general." He shrugged, trailing off, feeling more than a bit like an aft for even bringing it up, presuming there might be intimacy involved after all these years.

Perceptor lowered the hand from his mouth--where it'd been stifling something--and gave Drift a reassuring look. "I have no expectations Drift, you can come in and just keep me company."

"That'd be nice," he beamed, following the scientist in through door, neither mech admitting that it was really Perceptor keeping Drift company, a comforting bit of companionship, a sheltering presence to get some recharge in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible for doing that thing with Rewind, yup. (sorry, not sorry) Also attempting to even passably write Megatron's poetry is not something I think I want to do again. x_x;;
> 
> An update, already!?! This has easily been one of my favorite chapters to write to-date; it checks off a number of things on my wishlist that I don't know if/when I'll see them in canon. I hope it does for a few other people too. I wanted to get it done before Christmas, since it has gift-giving and a fluffier feel than the last chapter. Instead, please enjoy it for the new year! Here's hoping I can keep up faster updates like this. Thank you to everyone sharing the journey with me.


	7. Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift attempts to reintegrate into life on the Lost Light but some individuals seem determined to up the difficulty level, while others seek to make it more comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I'm not dead! But it feels like the past year has included almost every other adult life hurdle one can think of (okay maybe half) but I never gave up on coming back to this, so here we are! Thanks for your patience on this update and any roughness or possible inconsistencies as I get back into the swing of things here, feel free to point them out.
> 
> Recent canon developments make me want to do SO MANY things with this story. I can foresee two possible endings now, and heaven help but I do not want to choose! Maybe I'll just write both, like choose your own (ship) adventure? I don't even know but YOLO!?????

Off-shift hours at Swerve's were buzzing as usual, minus a few of the more affluent customers--or snobby, as the barkeep would say--who preferred Visages. And then there were the characters who enjoyed both; the simple fact they could roll from one to the other and make it a double night. People were indeed in a mood to celebrate, spirits high with the DJD defeated and a new lead on their quest in the horizon--so Rodimus said--so what better excuse for some frivolity did they need?

The one table in the center of Swerve's was undeniably loud, in no small part thanks to Trailcutter, who was absorbing the atmosphere as much as he wasn't absorbing the engex, and frequently extolling his capacity as 'designated engex-free escort person', fully willing to make sure the drunkards got home safely and didn't take their alt-modes when they shouldn't.

"Being sober must be hard," Jackpot said from across the big table, his face screwed up in a way that made the notion seem like a Thunderclashian level challenge, his fourth cylinder of engex--what remained in the glass still anyway--dangling from his fingers.

"One must excel at something," Atomizer said, his own glass of engex barely touched, though for the number of times he brought it to his mouth, from the slight sway in his seat and easy way his words came, most wouldn't realize it. It led onlookers to surmise that perhaps it was his second or third drink, not the first that he was nursing.

Jackpot threw an arm into the air, hailing Swerve with all the volume he could muster--which was quite a lot--the meager remains of his former drink suddenly forgotten. "SWERVER. BUDDY. GIMME A WREEECKING BALL!"

Clearly Swerve knew this was a terrible idea--the Wreckers inspired drink was not for the faint of spark--but who was he to deprive a paying customer of his request? The sign simply said _No swords, no guns, no briefcases_ , if he added _no bad attitudes or lightweights_ , the bar would never get any business. Besides, he had a far more reliable bouncer now, even if the floral body paint diminished Ten's intimidation factor.

And thus down came the murky green drink in its metal canter with a heavy clang, the words _DRINK AT YOUR OWN RISK_ stenciled on the front. It sloshed ominously in front of Jackpot, who waved off both Swerve and the remnants of his former drink with optics only for the frothy beast in front of him. "Awwww yes! Just what the doc ordered!"

"I'm fairly certain doctors orders _follow_ the consumption of that drink, not precede it." Atomizer's helm titled with an optic roll behind his visor, "Let me guess, you must be a fan?"

Jackpot grunted, which might have been an affirmative or it might have been bubbles in his fuel line. "Wreckers Classified got me through some pretty guard duty at Garrus-9. Shame what happened with Impactor though."

"A bit melodramatic, I always thought," Atomizer said coolly, "if not a touch cliche."

"Well whatever, not all of us are gifted writerz 'n such." Jackpot swirled the drink, the sound of something heavy and metal rolling about the bottom, making the smoky fizz churn at the top. "Guess you're _not_ a fan."

"I knew the author. Quite the scandal, in the end." Atomizer's mouth quirked and he raised his glass to hide it. "Speaking of scandal, have you heard? Megatron was seen visiting Drift in the medibay."

"No slag, really?" Jackpot drawled, "'afore or after his little accident?"

"Before." Atomizer supplied.

"That can't be coincidence," suggested a voice from behind Jackpot as Getaway arrived, drink in hand, and chose a seat next to him. "I wonder if he carries a grudge? He sure carried one for Optimus."

Jackpot burst into raucous, sniggering laughter, "That's not all he carries for the old Pri--"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Atomizer interrupted, trying to keep them on topic, "old habits die hard. You should have seen the look on Megatron's face while on his way to medibay."

"Megatron always looks like that," Trailcutter interjected. "I'm surprised Ratchet even let him in there, he's so protective of Drift."

"Can you blame him though?" Getaway asked casually, "Drift is a bit, mmmm, shall we say impressionable? It makes sense that Megatron would seek to make more allies."

"Hmm, true. It's just him and the cat." Atomizer added, expression leading any audience member at the table to draw their own, very obvious conclusions. He and Getaway exchanged a look as Jackpot's face turned pensive, drink forgotten for a moment as those important tidbits of information sank past the drunken haze and into his mind, sure to make an appearance later. A frown pinched Jackpot's face for a moment, then he shook it off as if suddenly remembering what he was here to do and raised his glass, the large steel bearing at the bottom rolling around ominously.

"Okay! Ten shanix says I can drink this entire Wrecking Ball in ten kliks without bashing my teeth in, who's in!?!"

It would have been a good bet, and Jackpot would have won it if not for the slink of feline metal past his ankle just as he got to the bottom, failing to catch the bearing with his tongue and nearly choking on it.

 

* * *

 

"What did the diagnostic return?"

First Aid looked up from the workbench where the tools, monitors and the life support equipment used for Drift's stay in medibay lay scattered about. "Inconclusive so far, but it seems like hardware failure."

"What do you mean, hardware failure?" Ratchet asked icily, not with any ire directed at First Aid, but at the topic in general. "I thought we recently replaced the boards in all those units."

First Aid shrugged, light shifting on his visor. "Perhaps we missed this one. Or maybe the new one was bad."

Ratchet huffed, irritable. "That's what quality testing is for."

"I was just about to clean up, but I can check it all again," First Aid offered, knowing that it meant Ratchet pulling a double shift in medibay to cover. There were technicians who could do this, but Ratchet seemed uncharacteristically insistent that it be one of them.

"No, no. You've done enough. I'll check it myself later." Ratchet sighed, appearing more tired than usual.

First Aid paused, thoughts percolating to the surface and teetering on the edge of indecision. Finally, they tipped into his vocalizer. "What do think happened Ratchet? He was...gone for a few moments, wasn't he?"

Ratchet seemed to stiffen, dark thoughts rolling past behind his optics. Then the old medic sighed, as if recalling that the ordeal was done, in the past. "Spark activity seem to cease yes. But..."

"But that's impossible, isn't it? The only recorded instance that I've seen of full spark revival was from an unusually strong branched spark."

Ratchet shook his head, his expression something like stubborn disbelief. "There have been other occasions, rare ones, all involving sparks with external ties. Branched, splices, combiners... Drift has no such connections," he frowned gruffly. "And the signature hadn't been completely lost."

"Misplaced, you'd said..."

"A poor choice of words," said the older medic, "the readings don't make sense. Probably more equipment failure."

"Good fortune though, don't you think, that it brought him out of stasis."

"Yeah..." Ratchet had to agree, voice both rougher and softer than usual.

The corner of First Aid's mouth lifted, considering a moment. "You're fond of him, aren't you?" If the First Aid was looking to break Ratchet's composure, he couldn't have picked a better topic. Ratchet sputtered static from his vocalizer, reeling back from the sudden change of topic.

"He's a patient! Like every other member of this crew. You think I enjoy losing even _one_?!"

The average cybe might have been taken aback, maybe even insulted, by the unnecessary outburst. But at this point First Aid knew Ratchet too well to be either. Instead, his visor seemed to twinkle with reflected light has he chimed a soft laugh. "So you are, then."

The older medic's engine grumbled huffily, optics cast away as his arms crossed over his chest. "It shouldn't matter, Aid. Professionally we should treat them all equally."

"Of course. But we both know how that changes in practice Ratchet," First Aid had plenty of his own experience in that regard. "I don't fault you for caring. And I know _he_ doesn't."

"Don't you bring him into this!" Ratchet barked suddenly, then amended, "Any more than he already is."

First Aid lifted his hands in surrender, of the battle if not the war. He refrained though, from making any verbal promises. "It's your business Ratchet, but I wonder if you're not more than a little protective beyond a mere medical basis..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

First Aid cast Ratchet a look, one that was readable even on the visored and masked face. If allowed to continue, Ratchet better remember he asked for it.

"Are you sure your disapproval of Rodimus is based solely on his leadership capacity? And Megatron..."

"Don't you start! That's a valid worry if ever there _was_ one! Drift doesn't need to go from Rodimus' cast off to Megatron's toady all over again."

First Aid tilted his helm, reading the massive landscape between the lines. "You know it wasn't entirely Rodimus' fault," he held up a staying hand, "but that's not my point. Whether you admit it or not, you've nominated yourself Drift's protector. Have you even stopped to think that he doesn't need one?"

"Please. Have you _seen_ his medical file? When the system defrags, it moves files _around_ that his, not the other way around."

"True enough," First Aid offered, "but my point is, maybe he'd like something else. A friend, or--"

"Tsh," Ratchet cut off the other medic with a derisive huff, "Kid's got better game than this old mech."

First Aid just shrugged and allowed Ratchet to shoo him off to his duty shift, confident he'd actually won that round given the flustered quiver of Ratchet's EM field.

 

* * * 

 

Drift had heard about the poetry reading, or the attempt of one, at the new bar that had opened on the Lost Light's upper decks. Just hearing that Megatron had picked up poetry again--actually learning that he practiced in general, it had been rumored but not widely advertised in the Decepticons--was an intriguing aspect that left the swordmech curious. Drift wished he could encourage another reading, perhaps at a different venue, but he thought he should perhaps investigate the original venue first.

He paused in the doorway of Visages, taking in the atmosphere. It was more dimly lit than Swerve's, the tables smaller and booths a little more intimate, made for smaller groups. He spied what looked like a familiarly shaped helm alone in one of the side booths, but just as he turned that direction someone brushed passed him.

"Oh, Drift," Atomizer turned as if seeing Drift for the first time, "How are you feeling? That was quite a little spell you had there."

"Fine," Drift said, too flatly, too quickly, for it to be true. "Just fine."

"Good to hear it." Atomizer returned placidly, the faceplate masking more than just his expression. "Take care of yourself, there's plenty less than savory individuals out there."

Drift's engine rumbled fitfully as the other cybe turned to leave, narrowed optics coolly lingering on Atomizer's back. Whether that was a comment about Megatron or the DJD or whoever else might have designs on his well being Drift wasn't sure. A memory from his last day on the Lost Light reared up in his processor instead: a length of metal pipe that had struck his helm, caving in part of a finial, as he took his leave from the ship with a spiteful, raging mob behind him. He'd been so determined to leave with grace and pride and not look back, but after that his optics, the color shading darkly, had slipped back towards the crowd. Deadlock had always been excellent at gauging trajectories and even if Drift hadn't fired a gun in decades, the skill never faded. It wasn't hard to guess that the flame-colored archer standing in the crowd had been the source.

Drift's attention snapped back to the present as whispers off to the side caught sharply in his audio like nettles in cape, originating from the side of the bar Atomizer had come from. '...hear what happened?' _'...compromised...' '...never command..' '...unfit...unstable...'_

With another discontent rumble, Drift turned his back to them, moving off to the occupied booth he had spied earlier, and sure enough, seated there was Perceptor, engrossed in a datapad. He synthesized a cough, trying to get the scientist's attention.

"Mind some company? I won't be a bother, if you're busy."

Perceptor looked up, a pleasant expression dawning on his face at the sight of his guest. "Please, by all means," he gestured to the seat opposite him, which Drift gratefully slide into. "What brings you here?"

"I was just going to ask you that," Drift said, amused, "I'd heard there'd been a poetry reading here. I thought I should come look around."

"Ah, yes. Indeed there was. Unfortunate, the outcome, though not surprising." Perceptor replied, "as for myself, it's quieter here than at Swerve's. Usually."

Drift's helm dipped in a nod. "I'm sad I missed it, even so. He never spoke of such things by the time I joined."

Perceptor was quiet a moment, face unreadable. "Are you sure, Drift, that you should be making comments like that?"

Drift looked perplexed for a moment, and perhaps a bit dismayed. Then his face fell. "Oh....you mean because of the reinstatement process?"

Perceptor held his hands out, like a doctor with an untreatable condition on his hands. "It might not be the best strategy is all I'm suggesting."

Drift heaved a rough sigh through his vents, disgruntled. "I don't care, Percy! For once..." His voice grew quiet, not for the concern of being overheard, but as if the fire that had fueled it was suddenly expended. "For once I don't care. I spent so long building trust, confidence, and I had to throw it all away. I... I'm _tired_ Percy. I don't want to start all over."

Perceptor reached out, a hand on Drift's wrist. "I don't think you'll have to start over, Drift."

The two sat in silence for a moment, Drift trying to let those words soothe his discomfort. And when they seemed inadequate, Perceptor offered, "Can I buy you a drink?"

Normally the invitation would have been welcome, by the nature of it and that who had offered it. But the thought of warmed energon sliding down his intake made Drift's tanks clench, fuel valves tightening, and he politely declined. "Oh. No, thank you. I...should probably move along. Uh, I'm sure there's something in the addenda waiting for me."

Perceptor gave him a quiet nod, being smart enough to know that Drift's duty roster was very blank for the timing being, but being gracious enough to still let Drift hide behind it. Drift was happy to leave the dark, almost stifling place, reminding him too much of the leering dark of the Peaceful Tyranny, and he made his way quickly away from the place and back to his quarters.

That had been his intent at least, but instead Drift found himself roaming the decks of the ship fitfully, the thoughts churning in his processor driving his feet restlessly forward, his path not deliberately chosen but falling into old habits. The soft sound of casual voices brought his attention back to the present, finding himself just past the threshold of one of the mess halls. There was a small group of cybes clustered about the fueling station, and a few at a table off to the side.

Drift frowned, wondering why the pull of his energies brought him _here_ of all places, when he wasn't drinking much liquid fuel these days, but then it came over him, that subtle feeling of being watched. In his distant peripheral something large moved across the room, and when Drift turned it was to the view of Megatron's back receding towards the other exit, energon in hand.

The frown hovering at the edges of Drift's mouth pinched into a thin line. That restlessness found his feet again and he turned, strides taking him out the door and down the hall after Megatron, fingers curling into a determined shape.

"Is it still your custom to refuel in private?" Drift said as he closed the distance.

"It seems polite. I'd not want to ruin a crewmate's appetite by lingering. They feel more comfortable when I don't." Megatron's glance was sidelong, and it did linger as Drift pulled up alongside. "What of your appetite? Has it returned?"

Drift looked at Megatron, measuring the meanings behind the words, knowing the orator and writer's word choice was always calculated.

"I took a wrong turn," was all Drift said, offering nothing about his condition but wondering if wasn't necessary, if Megatron knew.

"Pity. I was hoping that meant you'd seen some progress in recovery." Megatron said simply, removing the question and adding a new one in Drift's mind. Regardless, it hung in his processor, held there by uncertainty, and several moments passed as they continued down the corridor.

Finally, "How did you know?"

"It was a reasonable conclusion after observing your behavior and reading your file. Ratchet left the datapad at your medislab."

"Wait, when?" Drift questioned, briefly bewildered.

"While you were in stasis, as repairs were being completed."

"So you....you came to see me??" Drift questioned again, dubious this time.

"I did." Megatron's replied plainly, his bulky helm tilting to consider Drift. "Did Ratchet not mention it?"

Drift's helm lifted suddenly, meeting Megatron's optics for a moment, their color flickering with wary confusion. Finally he answered, "No, he didn't."

Megatron rumbled thoughtfully but offered no further comment and Drift looked away again, thoughts drawing out pensively. Why hadn't Ratchet told him? Ratchet had mentioned others who had come in an effort to cheer him up, but no mention of Megatron. Was it deliberate? The question turned about in his cortex over and over, feeling more and more like suspicion the more he over examined it. A rough, synthesized cough startled him out of it.

"This is where my journey ends. You may wish to move along quickly, lest you be seen."

Drift shook the thoughts away at Megatron's interruption, but he realized why, as he stared plainly at a habsuite door and number, the surface scuffed and dull where the powerful cleansers had been used to remove graffiti. Realizing he was standing with Megatron at the door to the ex-warlord's quarters, Drift collected himself and stepped aside.

"Right. Uh. Enjoy your meal." He nodded curtly and turned to go, seeking a new path to his own quarters.

"And you, yours. When you can." Megatron said quietly, before disappearing into his own room.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until the door to Megatron's habsuite slid fully closed that Ravage shifted from his typical place of recharge, within view of the door but not in immediate line of sight of any potential trespassers, head lifting to regard the welcome return of its primary occupant.

"You're back. I was wondering if you'd gotten distracted."

"I'm quite capable of staying focused on objectives far more complex than a simple fuel run," Megatron returned, ignoring the clearly laid out bait. "What do you have to report?"

"You shouldn't encourage him."

"I seem to recall Soundwave saying something very similar once upon a time."

"And look how that turned out."

Megatron simply tossed Ravage a look as he fetched a bowl. That was all far into the past, a past Megatron was trying to move beyond--troubles and highlights alike--including those that involved Deadlock. His mouth turned in a frown, soured by more than just the fool's energon he poured for himself, then filling the bowl with the energon he'd retrieved at the fueling station and setting it on the cabinet where Ravage lay sprawled.

"Your report?" He rose back up to his full height and requested it again, arms crossed.

Ravage dipped his head gratefully for the energon, both forepaws settling to either side of the bowl.

"He's cunning, and careful. If he's engaged in clearly subversive activity I haven't found it, yet. But he's certainly suspect. Vocal at conveniently strategic times and places. Whether Atomizer is intentionally fueling a propaganda machine or just an opinionated aft with a big mouth remains to be seen however."

"The two often overlap." Megatron said dryly, clearly not surprised but also not pleased to be proven correct in his suspicions thus far. "Specifics?"

"They question Drift's viability for duty and his loyalty to the crew, as well as your motivations towards him, positive or negative. Rumors are being seeded to that effect."

"They're targeting Drift more than me?" Megatron said, uncomfortable surprise threading into his subvocals. He didn't like surprises, moves he didn't foresee among the players on the field as these events unfolded. "That makes no sense. I am the easier target. Drift's worked hard to establish a new reputation, his plight should garner sympathy from his crew mates."

Ravage looked up from his energon, "Maybe they _are_ targeting you. Through him."

Silence dropped cold and hard in the room, disrupted only by the deep bass idle of Megatron's systems. The firm set of his mouth was twice as hard, his industrial sized engine rumbling in a low growl. Ravage regarded the ex-warlord and the darkness that veiled his face, hiding all but the firm set of that mouth, a shape much like the anger of old but carrying the pinch of pain with it. Then the creak of metal sounded in the small room, the knuckles of Megatron's fist straining as it clenched tight. The sound seemed to startle him, as if he hadn't realized he was making a fist.

"Does this....surprise you?" Ravage softly ventured.

Megatron did not lift his head.

"No. It does not." The fist open and closed, as if indecisive in the shape that it wanted to be. His voice though, was a little too certain of things, a frustrated anger and fierce protectiveness. "It's the very reason I sent him away before, so long ago. It's ridiculous, Ravage," He looked up finally, "Ridiculous that I should have to do it again, here."

"I shouldn't have to do it again. And _yet_...

 

* * *

 

If the cybes that passed Megatron in the hallway gave him a wider berth than usual it wasn't thanks to his EM field, pulled in as tight as could be, hiding the distaste that must be more than plain on his face. It was not as if the big mech ever smiled in public--some said his face wasn't capable of the exercise--but he appeared even more dour than usual as he strode with heavy, purposeful steps towards the door of Ultra Magnus' quarters. One stiff rap later and the Lost Light's second-in-command was gesturing for entry, face unreadable.

"This is an unexpected visit."

"Pardon. I realize you just finished a long shift, but I have an inquiry," Megatron offered with little explanation, "May I?"

Ultra Magnus stepped aside, inviting entry, and Megatron moved through the door to find a place to stand inside. Ultra Magnus' quarters were not nearly as spartan as he'd imagine, furniture that offered more comfort than expected while also suitable to both large and small frames was positioned in sensible places throughout the room, not impeding the traffic flow, a digital library with several linked datapads encompassing one wall, including a fairly small yet respectable sound system.

"Duty calls at all hours of the cycle. What brings you here?"

"How goes the investigation?"

It didn't require a detective of Magnus' caliber to know what the ex-warlord meant. "It continues. There's progress, but I'm still compiling evidence."

"And Atomizer?"

"Still a person of interest. Nothing further currently," Magnus replied and Megatron rumbled in response, a thoughtful noise that might have sounded sinister to those more fearful than Magnus. "You know I can't share details of the investigation at this juncture."

Megatron was quiet, as if weighing the options, but Magnus was too astute for him. "You have something to add?"

The former warlord looked back at him, his carefully constructed face twitching into a frown for a moment. "Nothing solid," he ruminated, "After centuries of leadership you learn to watch the currents of those under your command, watch the power struggles, rise and fall, shifting dramas on a scale much smaller than any battlefield."

A strange tangent perhaps, but as always Megatron spoke with intention, coming around to the point as Magnus listened patiently for it. "Sometimes there are those that attain their goals not by deed but by orchestrating the deeds of others. I would watch him closely. If I am not mistaken, he aims to intentionally sew dissent."

Magnus' helm tilted, as always weighing his response well before speaking, "It would not surprise me. Though that would be contrary to his aspirations to get closer to Rodimus."

An interesting choice of words, that, speculated Megatron. "You think his ambition is for more than just a command position?"

"Ahh--" Magnus verbally tripped over the potential implication, "The Captain's personal life is not mine to judge," he said a little too quickly, "unless it impinges on his ability to command."

It wasn't what Megatron had intended to imply, and Megatron's browridge quirked under his heavy helm at the context Magnus seemed to be adding. He looked at Magnus for a long, studying moment, Magnus shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

"Are you saying he wants Drift's place in Rodimus's life in more ways than one?" Megatron asked evenly.

Ultra Magnus collected himself, gruffly insisting. "The nature of Atomizer's ambitions cannot be determined at this time."

Megatron's brow ridge lifted higher under his helm, "And the nature of yours?"

Magnus stuttered fully then, taken a back at the forward question. And Megatron could see the struggle: Ultra Mgnus was not the type to lie, or even fib for the sake of his ego, but the truth seemed something he was not prepared to share, or perhaps even acknowledge to himself.

Megatron chuffed through his vents then, not quite a laugh, accepting that as enough of an answer and waving off the rest. "Regardless, I think we both have reasons to be concerned with Atomizer's maneuverings."

Magnus rumbled assent (and some relief). "May I ask how you come by this assertion?" A pause, the scrutiny building in the other direction, "You've been doing your own information gathering."

The corner of Megatron's mouth quirked. It was what he liked about Magnus: intelligent and discerning but not prone to overthinking. Well, much. He'd thought in the beginning that such a thing would be more of a hindrance to him than anything, but the Prime's trial had proven him wrong and he'd come to rely on Ultra Magnus' grounded and perceptive view in any situation.

Though things do change...

Magnus inquired levelly, "Are you certain you don't have too much of a personal investment in this investigation regarding Drift's saboteur?"

It was the ex-warlord's turn to be caught off guard, face flickering with surprise. It wasn't a question he wanted to answer, or even examine too closely. The past was the past, water long under the bridge, and not something that should be repeated. He felt a certain obligation to the former Decepticon. Drift had so much potential, Megatron had seen that from the beginning, but he'd led him to near ruin instead. That felt like a debt he owed on, and seeing after the swordmech's safety was only a small portion repaid.

"I have concern for the well being of every crew member, Drift included." Megatron answered evenly. And Magnus nodded, knowingly, as he watched Megatron rise to go.

"Just have caution, that such concern does not interfere with the investigation or bringing any potential perpetrator to justice." Magnus hesitated, then on a unexpected whim added, "Might you stay? I have a new set of texts from the Debolian system, just translated. Very interesting writings I hear..."

Megatron paused at the door, considering. "Perhaps another time, thank you." He nodded, once, his tone equally steady. "And despite popular suspicion to the contrary, I have a firm understanding of what justice is." And with that he turned to go, the door closing on Magnus' parting words.

"I know."


End file.
